


We As Human

by inkandpaperqwerty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxious Sam Winchester, But Then Dean Finds Out, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Castiel (Supernatural) Needs a Hug, Dean Winchester Loves Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Tries, Depressed Sam Winchester, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Everyone Feels Bad, Everyone tries, Family, Family Feels, Gabriel Watches Distantly, Gen, Guilty Castiel (Supernatural), Guilty Dean Winchester, Guilty Sam Winchester, Happy Ending, Healthy Relationships, Hiding Mental Illness, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempts, Intense, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kinda Dark, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, No Hollywood Crap, Not Really Dark Just Heavy, Panic Attacks, Parental Bobby Singer, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Real Depression, Recovery, Sam Winchester Has Mental Health Issues, Sam Winchester Has Panic Attacks, Sam Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Sam Winchester Whump, Suicidal Sam Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, The Ultimate Helicopter Parent, mild Self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-12 23:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 41,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18020750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperqwerty/pseuds/inkandpaperqwerty
Summary: Sam has been struggling with depression since Stanford. Well, not really struggling. Excelling. He's been excelling at depression since Stanford, and it's only gotten worse since he started hunting again. Unfortunately, the relapses from John's death and Dean's trip to Hell were bad, but they had nothing on the downward spiral triggered by Sam starting the Apocalypse.But Sam has never come clean before, and he isn't about to start. He's self-medicating, he's suppressing, and he's handling things in the Trademark Winchester Way. He can do this. He can totally do this.Spoiler: No, he can't.





	1. Take The Bullets Away

**Author's Note:**

> Title is the name of a heavy metal band, and the chapter titles are song titles _by_ that band.
> 
> This story goes back and forth between a narration of sorts and Sam's third-person perspective.

_"Now I see I can't see myself;_  
_I believed I was stronger than I felt._  
_Everything turned to golden,_  
_Then it fell apart._  
_It's the same old story._  
_It's the same sad song._  
_Where did I go wrong?_

 _Lay me down in the waves;_  
_Let the water wash away._  
_And if I leave with the tide,_  
_In the morning I will rise,_  
_So lay me down._  
_Don't lift me out._  
_Let me drown."_

_\- Let Me Drown, We As Human_

* * *

Sam splashed his face and leaned on the sink, cool water dripping from his nose and chin. He tilted his head up and met his own eyes, bloodshot and raw from rubbing. Each heavy, crackling pant left a small spot of fog on the mirror.

_Come on… come on…_

His heart pounded against his sternum, muscles wound tight around his ribcage, and he couldn’t breathe. His head was spinning, throbbing, aching. His legs and arms quivered, his vision swam, and fire ran hot through his veins.

He had been that way for about fifteen minutes.

When the symptoms had first started, Sam hadn’t wasted any time getting away from Dean long enough to pop an Ativan. And then he waited… and waited… and he still had a few minutes to go.

_Do you really want it to work, though?_

Sam shoved the voice aside. He refused to debate that question—refused to even consider it—no matter how valid it might have been. Which was hard, because it _was_ valid.

Not that Sam _didn’t_ want his panic attack to be over, he just knew that as soon as it was… the crushing fatigue, the guilt and self-loathing, the cloud of fog cloaking his brain, the _depression_ would all come rushing back.

 _No. I have to keep it together._ Sam screwed his eyes shut. _I can’t afford to break now. I don’t have the right, not after what I’ve done._ He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. _This is my mess. I did this, and I need to fix it._

How, he didn’t know, because he had never screwed up _apocalyptically_ before, but he knew he had to fix things. Depression would have to wait. Anxiety would have to wait. When the stakes were considered, his health wasn’t even in the backseat, it was in the trunk. Or being pulled along in a trailer.

_Okay. Here we go._

Sam took another deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, giving himself a determined look in the mirror. He was still a wreck, but he wasn’t so much of a wreck that he couldn’t fake it for a few minutes. Once he was out of the motel, he could panic all the way to the library, and by then, the drug would be in full effect.

_Let’s do this._

Sam took another breath and opened the bathroom door, reentering the motel room with a small smile and a nervous question. “Did you, uh, did you call Bobby?”

“Yup.” Dean didn’t glance up from Sam’s computer, one hand absently maneuvering a beer to his lips. “He’s on his way.” Dean took a drink. “I’m googling a list of hills in the United States named after dogs.”

Sam blinked in surprise, tilting his head. “There’s a list?”

“No, which is why it’s taking me a million years.” Dean heaved a sigh and shook his head. His tone was humorous but not lighthearted, and he still couldn’t bring himself to look Sam in the eyes.

Which Sam understood fully, but it still hurt. Not that he would complain. He had made his bed, and he had to lie in it.

_“You’re a monster, Sam; a vampire.”_

Sam cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, uh, since you’re using the laptop, I’ll find the closest library and start looking for castles… if America even has any. We might have been founded after castles had their heyday.”

Dean nodded and hummed absentmindedly. “Hey, hit a store on the way back and bring me some pie, would you?”

Sam smiled weakly even though Dean wasn’t looking. “Sure.”

Sam left the motel room with research in the front of his mind, something he hoped would ground his thoughts. Thankfully, his panic attack wasn’t random, it was induced by a trigger, so if he could distract himself with the job…

Sam didn’t feel as claustrophobic once he got outside, the chilly air working wonders to ease the sensation of being choked to death in a sauna. His chest eased up every five or six breaths, allowing a substantial amount of air into his lungs before they contracted again. It got a little easier to hide his shaking hands.

It wasn’t good, but it was better, and Sam couldn’t complain.

After all he’d done, he didn’t have the right.

* * *

Sam closed the door to the utility closet and fell back against it, heaving a sigh of relief. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed one of the many numbers he knew by heart, pressing the device to his ear as he struggled to get his breathing under control. He rubbed his forehead and then tucked that same arm against his stomach, listening to the ringing on the other end of the line.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. He knew that. He needed help, so he was getting it. It was perfectly normal. No one would think twice about calling an ambulance for a heart attack or calling the police for a violent dispute.

Except Sam hadn’t called the suicide hotline since before Dean was resurrected.

For the first two months after Dean was mauled by Hellhounds, Sam had called on a near-daily basis. Once he had demon blood in his system—once his life started to feel a little less like plane crashing to Earth in a flaming tailspin—he only called once every three or four days. Then once a week. Then Dean came back, and that, combined with his admittedly unhealthy method of self-medication, enabled him to stop calling altogether.

Calling again after all that time—while hiding in a utility closet, no less—felt like defeat.

But Sam found himself whispering in the dark nonetheless, fifteen minutes into a conversation and thrumming with the spring-loaded sensation of waiting for Dean to find him.

“No, this isn’t the first time. I just… I’ve been fighting with my brother, and my uncle is in the hospital, and normally I’m better at managing my triggers, but…” he sucked air between his teeth, “…it’s just been a really rough year—rough couple of years—and I went through a patch about two weeks ago where I didn’t have access to my antidepressants for a few days, and that really threw me.” He swallowed hard, picking up speed. “Like, like, I couldn’t get out of bed. I told my brother it was a migraine, but it wasn’t, it was just—it just felt so familiar, and I—I can’t do another episode, I just can’t. I remember what it was like to be at rock bottom, and I’m—I’m scared to go back. I _can’t_ go back.”

Sam didn’t know how long he was on the phone, but Dean was less than pleased when Sam finally returned to the waiting room. Understandably; Dean was just as stressed out as Sam, and Sam had seemingly bailed. But that was one of the many downsides to hiding his suicidal tendencies… and depression… and anxiety… and general lack of mental health. It certainly wasn’t Dean’s fault.

“I talked to the doctor.” Dean’s voice was rough.

Sam swallowed and nodded his head, exhaling discreetly to cast the tension from his body. “I…” He chuckled softly and shook his head, looking at the ground. “I feel like I should ask what they said, but I… kind of don’t want to know.”

Dean looked at him with an expression Sam couldn’t quite read, but there was undeniable pain in his eyes. “It doesn’t look good, Sam.”

Sam’s heart sank to the floor, but all he did was offer another nod. What could he say? He had added yet another name to the ever-growing list of people he had failed; another tally mark on the record of sins he could never hope to pay penance for.

And Bobby wasn’t like most of the other names. He was right up there with Dean, Jess, John, and Mary. Five people, more dead than alive, whom Sam truly cared about, and he had failed them all.

Failing in general was one thing. Failing family was another beast altogether, and Sam had no excuse.

Not that Bobby seemed to care. He lied to spare Sam’s feelings, and he didn’t throw away the sense of responsibility for Sam that he never should have been burdened with in the first place.

_“I was awake. I know what I said back there. I just want you to know that... that was the demon talking. I ain't cutting you out, boy. Not ever.”_

If Sam had been just a smidge more off-balance, the words would have brought him to tears. Because Sam knew the truth. Sam knew the demon was a conduit, not a cause. Bobby might have said things while possessed that he never would have otherwise, but that didn’t mean they weren’t true. It just meant demonic possession lowered inhibitions a little more effectively than, say, alcohol. Bobby still meant what he said, deep down.

But that didn’t matter, because rather than taking advantage of the situation, Bobby went out of his way and lied. He lied for Sam.

Later, when Dean left Sam alone in the hospital parking lot, Sam would consider going to Bobby for comfort and advice. Sam’s heart would tell him to mention the lie to Bobby, just to see if Bobby cared enough to keep on lying, just to hear some kind words, just to throw up a red flag saying, ‘Attention: Sam Winchester is Not Okay.’

But, in the end, Sam’s brain would chastise his heart for the display of selfishness, for even considering the idea of seeking out a pat on the back like a spoiled child pining after a participation trophy, and he would wander off to a bar instead. And Dean would be asleep when Sam stumbled into the motel at three in the morning, clutching his stomach and moaning. Dean would sleep through Sam throwing up for an hour, and he would sleep through Sam indulging in a moment of weakness right there on the floor. He would sleep through the night while Sam stayed awake, and in the morning, he would believe it when Sam claimed to have achieved a solid six hours of sleep.

And Sam wouldn’t complain. Sam didn’t deserve to complain. He didn’t have the right.

* * *

Sam spent at least an hour every day on the hotline after he and Dean split up.

Sam was ashamed to admit it, but when he had approached Dean with the idea of separation, he had foolishly been hoping Dean would push back. He thought maybe Dean would realize Sam couldn’t be left alone and say something to that effect.

Sam could actually close his eyes and picture what he had been hoping for. He could see the little crinkle in Dean’s brow that said he was unhappy. He could see Dean shaking his head with a somber expression, green eyes squinting ever-so-slightly.

“No, Sammy,” he heard Dean say. “Maybe down the road, but not now. You’re not okay, man. You aren’t eating, you aren’t sleeping, you grab your phone and disappear for hours at a time with lame excuses; I heard you in the bathroom the other night having a total meltdown, and with everything that’s going on, I just… I can’t let you go. You gotta tell me what’s wrong.”

But Dean didn’t say that, or anything like that, so Sam grabbed his things and left.

And Sam dreamt about the boys he had killed in the town influenced by War.

And Sam got another hunter killed. And Sam almost got a barmaid killed.

And Sam found out he was Lucifer’s vessel.

And Dean told Sam to pick a hemisphere.

So, once again, Sam grabbed his things and left. Really, he ran away, tearing out of town in a panicked frenzy and going a good twenty miles before swerving off the road and staggering into an open field. He collapsed in the damp grass and stared up at the stars until the frigid air cooled him down enough to feel like he could breathe again. He cried and whispered to a long-dead love that he wished she was there with him; that he wished it was his first year at Stanford again.

He wished it had only been a month since she dragged him to a psychiatrist despite his protests. He wished his first and only depressive episode was in his rearview mirror, along with his first and only suicide attempt. He wished he could nervously slide into bed next to her and ask questions about depression, about her sister’s experience with it, and about all the little cracks and flaws he had always been too afraid to show. He wished he could sit there with a warm thrum in his chest when she reacted in the kind of compassionate and loving way he had only ever seen in his best dreams.

He wished he wasn’t spiraling again.

Sam woke up the next morning in a motel room with little recollection of how he got there. He had a message on his phone from Dean, and once he listened to it, he shot out of bed in a rush to get to wherever Dean was.

Dean was still having trouble trusting—understandably, given all Sam had done—but Dean made a valiant effort. He even tried to crack a little joke.

_“Oh, I know it. I mean, you are the second-best hunter on the planet.”_

But Sam only nodded. He couldn’t laugh. He could barely smile anymore, and once again, he found himself hoping Dean would notice.

But once again, Dean didn’t. Because Dean never did. Because no one ever did, and no one ever would, and that made Sam a little desperate. It made him desperate enough to lash out on their very first hunt as a team again.

_“I deserve it, and worse. You'll never punish me as much as I'm punishing myself.”_

Sam hated himself for that; hated the way he tried to passive-aggressively start a fight and blame it on the other person, like he hadn’t orchestrated the whole thing. Like the whole point wasn’t to achieve a level of rage that got him out of the constant push and pull of knowing he needed help and being too scared and ashamed to admit it. Like he didn’t know full-well that it was all a temperamental cry for attention, a futile attempt to get those around him to notice what was going on inside his head.

Because screaming, “I literally want to _kill_ myself, so I assure you, I know _exactly_ how bad I screwed things up, Dean!” in anger was so much easier than whispering, “I already want to kill myself, and you reminding me of my mistakes really hurts me, Dean,” with tears in his eyes.

Because anger wasn’t vulnerable, and anger wasn’t afraid, and anger didn’t want to be loved and accepted and respected; anger wanted to hurt other people, and anger wanted to attack and control and win, and anger wanted to be feared and vindicated.

In theory, anger let Sam finally tell someone he was in a bad place without him having to hand over a knife and his back. In reality, it just didn’t work. Not with John. Not with Dean. Not with anybody. It either escalated but never got resolved, which made Sam’s state that much worse, or it made people feel bad enough that they backed off.

“ _Point is, I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn't see what it was actually doing to you. So, for that I'm sorry.”_

 _No!_ Sam wanted to scream. _Don’t apologize, just—just fight with me! Just notice how I’m doing now, because it’s not good, Dean! It’s really not good, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m scared, and I—_

Sam wound up on the hotline again, sitting in the Impala until three in the morning, talking to a stranger about his feelings, exposing parts of himself that people he would _die_ for didn’t know about.

_“I think there’s a part of me that wants to live. I mean, of course there is, otherwise I wouldn’t be calling you. I just meant—” Breath. “Men attempt suicide less frequently than women, but we have a higher success rate. So, if I’ve tried and failed three times, that must mean I want to live, right? That there’s something keeping me here? Geeze, I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”_

Over the next few days, Sam spent more time than he wanted to admit watching footage of disasters with high death tolls. He watched documentaries on 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. He read and watched accounts of near-death experiences and last words. He thought about what his own last words might be, if he chose to leave a note or recording, which was odd, because he had never left anything before.

But Sam still got up every day. He might have dragged his feet a little, but he got his job done, and he was proud of that. That was an accomplishment in his book, and it helped to motivate him a little more each day.

Unfortunately, with an increase in energy came an increase in the ability to feel, and it came at the worst time. Because when Sam was feeling something other than numbness, he sometimes started to feel not awful about himself. And when Sam was feeling not awful about himself, he would sometimes sit down and think about his role in the Apocalypse. He would think about how he wasn’t singlehandedly responsible. He would think about how Dean broke the first seal, the demons broke the rest while the angels let them, and Sam closed the whole thing off with a single seal of his own. He would think about the fact that he was only responsible for 1.51% of the Apocalypse.

_“So, if we lay it all out for him—what he is, the Apocalypse, everything—he might make the right choice.”_

_“You didn’t. And I can’t take that chance.”_

It made him want to scream.

Sam hadn’t been informed. Nobody had laid anything out for him. It had been weeks of yelling and secrets and lies; guilting and shaming him, making him feel worse than he already did for doing what he thought was right. There was hatred and disdain and manipulation, but there was never honesty. There was never respect or trust or _help_. Not from anyone.

And that was bad, because when Sam was feeling _really_ not awful about himself, he felt like maybe he had a right to be mad about that. Maybe it _wasn’t_ okay that he was being blamed for something that was only partly his fault. Maybe he _did_ have the right to ask for forgiveness, and maybe it _wasn’t_ fair when that forgiveness was withheld. Maybe it _was_ supposed to bother him that no one else saw what he did.

Except Sam rarely felt not awful about himself, let alone _really_ not awful about himself.

Like the tide, those feelings of self-worth and confidence would come in for a couple hours and then recede, the undertow dragging him down until he remembered why it _was_ his fault.

It was all his fault. It was always his fault.

_“Because I have to believe someone can make the right choice, even if I couldn’t.”_

Dean said nothing to defend Sam. Understandably; there was nothing to defend.

Dean said nothing to cheer Sam up afterward. Understandably; Sam didn’t deserve that.

Sam spiraled back down to the bottom of his personal pit of self-loathing. He got a little closer to bridge-jumping than he wanted to admit, and he punched out a wall and found himself eerily enjoying the pain of bruised and bloody knuckles.

Time passed, and Sam kept surviving. He took the pills he could get his hands on—not an easy task, but there was no way he could function without them—and he started taking extra steps toward recovery. He drank more water, took some vitamins, cut down on sugar and alcohol, and regulated his sleep as much as he could. He didn’t have the strength to do much more than that, but it was something.

Of course, Sam knew those things wouldn’t help his depression, but they _would_ help the overall state of his health. Sam was so far down he would take any improvement he could get.

Most days he failed. Most days he called the hotline.

Sam was raw, and hearing Bobby talk about putting a bullet in his mouth was too much. Sam couldn’t think about it for more than a nanosecond; couldn’t stand to picture it in his head. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Bobby, not only to a gun, but to the darkness. Sam couldn’t stomach the idea of Bobby feeling—or _not_ feeling—everything Sam did. Sam didn’t know what would be worse: watching Bobby kill himself or watching Bobby spend every day wishing he could.

Sam didn’t blame Bobby for gambling with years of his life. If Sam could sell twenty years to get out of the hole he was in, would he?

Faster than the speed of light.

Having said that, Sam had no qualms about gambling with his life to get years for Dean and Bobby. Sure, it worked out nicely when the female witch gave them a spell to stop Patrick, but even if she hadn’t, Sam would have sat at the table and bluffed his way through a game of life and death.

_“Don’t do that, Sam.”_

Sam had found it incredibly ironic that a witch, of all people, of all _things_ , would see through him.

_“Look, there’s poker, and there’s suicide.”_

_“Just play the hand.”_

Patrick had looked at Sam for a long moment, and a brief expression of understanding had crossed his face. He had glanced down at the chips, and then back up at Sam.

_“How long have you wanted to die, Sam?”_

_“Play. The. Hand.”_

Patrick had looked at him for another long moment.

_“Fine.”_

Unfortunately, Sam won. Not that he ever intended to lose—not with Dean and Bobby on the line—but it had been nice to think maybe he could go out doing something noble. Or trying to, anyway.

But he didn’t. He lived. He walked out just as alive as he had been when he walked in.

When it was all said and done, and everyone was the right age again, Sam couldn’t get out of the motel fast enough. He said he was going to get a booster shot, knowing the excuse was funny and relevant enough to be believed with a smile and a laugh.

He found a dark alley and hid behind a dumpster.

He spent about forty minutes on the hotline.

When he got back to the motel later, Dean had a grand time poking fun, and Sam let him. He laughed along, no matter how hard it got. He didn’t tell Dean the truth. He didn’t cry like he wanted to. He didn’t sleep at all that night.

He didn’t complain.

He didn’t have the right.

* * *

_“I just want it to be over.”_

Sam wet his lips and stared down at his lap, and for once, he didn’t use his privacy to call the hotline. Instead, he sucked down a shaky breath and prayed.

“Hey, Gabriel, it’s Sam. Uh, Winchester. I don’t know if you can hear this… and I hope I’m not, like, giving away your location or something. I don’t… really know how all that works.” Sam sighed and leaned back against the Impala’s windshield, staring up at the starry sky. “I just, uh… I wanted to say I understand. Dean doesn’t. Not that what he said wasn’t true, but…” Sam rubbed his face and sighed again. “I am… so, so tired; tired in a way… that has nothing to do with sleep… and I used to think it was going to go away, but now…”

Cool air rustled through the trees, a breeze ghosting over the back of Sam’s neck and raising goosebumps. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted in just enough of a cliché to make Sam smile for a fraction of a second. It faded, though.

It always faded.

“I, uh… the last time I was this bad, I got some help. I was only like this for about three months. But, uh… the things that worked then aren’t working now, and it’s starting to feel like this tunnel leads to a dead end.” Sam cleared his throat roughly. “So, you know, I get it. If the Apocalypse is your tunnel, and you don’t see a light at the end anymore… I really do get it.” Sam shook his head, feeling more like an idiot with every sentence that fell from his lips. “I wish I could tell you it’s still worth it to try. I wish I could tell you not to give up, to always keep fighting… but I can’t.” He dropped his head, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “Because I don’t want to do this anymore. And I’ve gotten so far down, I… I don’t want to be helped back up. Because…”

Sam felt the tears race down his cheeks—hey, look at that, he wasn’t completely dead inside—and he wondered he was hoping to accomplish. Gabriel wasn’t listening. Nobody was. Nobody _ever_ listened. Nobody cared.

“If someone… threw me a lifeline, I would still have to hang on while they pulled me up, and I… I don’t have the strength to do that anymore.” He sat up and dropped his forehead to his knees, hot tears soaking into his jeans as he silently cried. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know… I am so, _so_ tired of doing it… and if you’re tired, too… then screw Dean. Just… do what you have to. I wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone.”

He screwed his eyes shut a little tighter, wrapping his arms around his legs and pressing himself into a ball. His lungs spasmed, trying to cry but stalling repeatedly as Sam repressed the noises. His treacherous brain played scenarios in front of his mind’s eye. Scenarios where Dean woke up and went looking for Sam, worried about him, and Dean found Sam, but Sam didn’t realize, and Dean got a little glimpse of just how broken Sam was, because if Sam didn’t know he was being watched, he wouldn’t hold back.

That didn’t happen, of course. It never happened.

Sam thought about it _every single time,_ but it never happened.

Sam was there a long time, though he wasn’t sure how long exactly. He must have been exhausted, because he didn’t remember returning to the motel room and tucking himself in. He didn’t remember getting a glass of water and leaving it on the nightstand.

It didn’t matter. It had happened before, and it would happen again.

Sam drank the water and braced himself for another day.

* * *

Sam almost laughed at least fifty times during the Supernatural convention, especially when Dean angrily informed a couple fans that the lives Sam and Dean led were enough to send most people to the nut house. It was actually kind of painful to watch. Because it was like Dean _knew_ they should have been crazy, but he never actually bothered to _check._

_I don’t even remember what sanity is anymore._

But Sam didn’t say that. He shut his mouth and focused on staying conscious and coherent enough to muddle through another hunt.

When they lost Jo and Ellen, Sam attempted suicide for the fourth time in his life. It was just as halfhearted as every attempt that came before it, and he berated himself for never having the guts to pick a more reliable method.

He couldn’t even die right.

But then he overheard Dean crying— _really_ crying—for the first time since they were kids, and… he just couldn’t. It gave him the barest thread to cling to, so he did.

He said he needed some air, and he drove himself to the local hospital. He told them it was a mistake, he passed the psychological exams, and within twenty-four hours, he was wandering back home. He was out of it, but he pretended to be hungover; he said he spent the night in a motel, totally wasted, and Dean bought it. Bobby did, too.

Sam went upstairs and laid in bed. He stared at the ceiling, _willing_ himself to cry, desperate to grieve the way Dean had, but his eyes stayed dry. He felt nothing. He laid there, loathing himself, numb to everything but the steady burn of a budding hatred.

Sam was pretty sure that was the thing about depression he hated the most; the anger or sadness or _both_ that came over him the instant he started feeling again. It was the same anger that fueled his narcissistic arguments about how the Apocalypse really _wasn’t_ his fault. It was the same anger that made him start fights with Dean for attention.

Sam blamed everyone for everything, his brain connecting every single incident in his life to the way he felt in that moment. He blamed Dean, blamed John, blamed Mary, blamed Bobby, blamed Castiel, blamed Ruby, and Brady, and Jess, and Pastor Jim, and Gabriel, and Michael, and Lucifer, and Jo, Ellen, Azazel, Meg, Alistair, Anna, Uriel, and literally anyone else he could think of, no matter how insignificant.

He hated them all.

Except he didn’t want to hate. He didn’t want to be angry at all. He just wanted to feel _better_. But his brain didn’t care. He was furious, and he hated everyone and everything, and as much as he wanted to be better, he didn’t want to be numb again. He might not have liked the feeling of anger, but it was a _feeling_ , and that was more than he’d had since playing poker against Patrick.

He blamed Dean for not noticing.

He blamed Bobby for the same.

He blamed Castiel for getting between him and Dean; for his involvement in their lives and all the trouble he had caused in the name of his bigger picture.

He tried to tell Dean when they left the asylum. Dean didn’t want to hear it, and that made Sam furious all over again.

_“What are you gonna do? You gonna take a leave of absence? You gonna say yes to Lucifer? What?”_

Maybe Sam would. Maybe if he did, Dean would have a moment of self-reflection and ask himself what he had done. Maybe Dean would realize Sam didn’t like being shut down, Sam didn’t like being blamed, and every time Sam was ignored, a little piece of himself shriveled up and died. Maybe Dean would realize Sam was _different_ and couldn’t process and handle things the way Dean did, the way their dad did. Maybe Castiel would stop and ask himself if Sam _liked_ being blamed for mistakes others had made, if he liked being manipulated and used as a weapon without his knowledge or consent, if he liked being treated like a pariah because he made a well-intentioned mistake. Maybe everyone would stop and ask themselves, ‘Hey, when was the last time we asked Sam if he actually wants to get up in the morning?’ And maybe—just _maybe_ —they would all realize the answer was _never._

_“You’re gonna take all that crap and you're gonna bury it. You're gonna forget about it, because that's how we keep going. That's how we don't end up like Martin. Are you with me?”_

And with that, Sam fell off his high horse and returned to reality.

Most likely, the sedatives from the asylum and his lack of access to daily antidepressants had set up the fall. Dean’s words just tipped him over the edge.

Dean was only trying to help. Dean was scared for Sam, worried about him winding up in an asylum. Dean was looking out for Sam, all while Dean was suffering, too. Dean was stressed. Dean had been manipulated. Dean felt guilty about his hand in the Apocalypse.

Sam hated the way anger made him think.

Selfish. Dramatic. Needy. Shallow. Weak.

Dean deserved better.

Sam reassured Dean as much as he could and took Dean’s advice. He stuffed all the rage inside—what little was left after his plummet into numbness—and kept moving forward. On to the next town, the next case, the next reason not to stay in bed for eternity.

Switching bodies with a teenager was both terrible and a nice break. Part of depression was mental, and that part followed him into Gary’s body, along with the self-loathing and guilt of his mistakes. But a bigger part of depression was physical, and that meant he got a break from his chemically imbalanced body. Of course, he had been thrown into another one, but the chemical imbalance was different, and in a weird way, it felt… good. It was kinda nice to stress about things, to get mad at stupid parents, to be embarrassed, to be annoyed by a sister, to feel his heart flutter around a pretty girl.

Gary’s life sucked, but Sam found didn’t mind. Gary, at least, had the energy and mental clarity to know and rue the fact that his life sucked.

As soon as Sam was back in his body, he realized Gary must have been running on pure adrenaline the entire time he was behind the wheel. Everything hit Sam at once, his body screeching at him with a painful reminder that _no,_ he could _not_ do things.

_Why did you drink? Alcohol is a depressant; that’s why you stopped!_

_Why did you pick up that lady at the bar? You have no sex drive!_

_Why did you make so many facial expressions, and why were you so animated, and why did you make your brain work so hard? What’s wrong with you?_

Sam blamed the three days he spent in bed on the physical strain of having their bodies switched. He speculated that Gary was having the same problem, that it was just an aftereffect of the spell and would pass.

It didn’t. But it did get bearable enough for him to do what he needed to do. Rather, it got bearable enough to do what he needed to do when people could see him.

Sam found himself sitting down in the shower. He found himself listening to darker music. He found himself dragging his feet when he walked alone, and found he had a slower reaction time without the aid of adrenaline. Headaches increased, and joints and muscles ached, but he kept the almost constant chugging of painkillers hidden. It was easier to get dizzy and winded, but it wasn’t suspicious to casually lean against walls or tables. It was harder to get up in the morning, but most of the time, fatigue could be blamed on a hunt or the stress of the Apocalypse.

Life went on, and Sam didn’t complain. At least, not out loud.

Sam really would have been okay with Anna killing him to prevent the mess that was his existence. He tried to indicate that without coming right out and saying, ‘Guys, it’s time you learned I have severe depression and want to die, so let’s just let Anna scatter my atoms and call it a day.’

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work.

They wound up in the past, wound up meeting John and Mary, wound up doing some of the most emotionally draining things Sam could think of. He felt himself dissolving with every passing second, nothing but adrenaline getting him from one minute to the next. His legs shook and the world tilted. If the angels hadn’t shown up to fight, he would have collapsed _before_ he was stabbed.

When it was over, Sam wished he could feel the same hopelessness Dean did. He wished he could sit with his brother and say he understood why Dean’s conversation with Michael was so upsetting; that he could say he understood how frustrating it was to know that, no matter what they did, things always seemed to turn out a certain way.

He wanted to, but honestly? He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. From his depression, to his role as Lucifer’s vessel, to the death of their parents, and everything in between and beyond…

Was Dean’s hopelessness like quicksand? Like the walls closing in around him? Like a riptide dragging him out to sea, threatening to drown him only if he fought back? Maybe. And Sam was familiar with all of those, but Sam wasn’t there anymore.

Sam had gone down, down, down below those levels to the kind of hopelessness that didn’t drown or drag. It didn’t suck you into a dark hole, it _was_ the dark hole; it was the _bottom_ of the dark hole. It didn’t press in on every side because it didn’t need to. It didn’t wrap you in chains, because you stopped trying to leave a long time ago. In a horrible and terrifying way… it almost hugged you. It held you gently and whispered sweet nothings in the silence.

 _Think about how_ hard _it’ll be to crawl all the way out of here._

 _Think about how_ painful _it’ll be when you get halfway up and fall back to the bottom again._

 _Think about how_ noisy _it is up there. Think about the chaos of being alive. Dozens of emotions and obstacles, interactions and relationships, responsibilities and goals, work and family. So many decisions to make. So many people to disappoint. So many failures and flaws._

_Not with me. It’s safe with me. You like being with me. You like it because you can’t screw up being a screw-up. You can’t be disappointed if you never have hope. You can never fail if you never try. You like it. You want it. So just… stay._

Would wonders never cease? Sam managed to make himself cry.

Maybe he _wasn’t_ at the bottom of the pit yet.

* * *

Sam knew something was wrong the moment Castiel opened the door to the panic room. What exactly was wrong, Sam didn’t know, because sorting out something like that would require thinking, and his withdrawals had sucked whatever little life he still had right out of him, so thinking was well beyond his capabilities.

It was a miracle he wasn’t sprawled out on the floor, unconscious.

“You okay?” Sam murmured, eyes half-lidded.

Castiel met Sam’s gaze briefly, and then he silently gestured for Sam to pass over the threshold.

Sam walked through the door and made for the stairs, his muscles straining under the effort. He probably should’ve asked what was wrong, but the thought of conversation was exhausting. Walking was exhausting. Being alive was exhausting.

Sam blinked at his own hands, watching them slide uncoordinatedly along the handrail. Once he was on the ground floor, he headed straight for the next flight of stairs, practically salivating at the thought of a nap in the guest room.

“Library.” Castiel gave the lower, left-hand side of Sam’s back the slightest of pushes to direct him.

Sam almost objected. _I can’t help._ But he was too tired. _It doesn’t matter what’s wrong, I can’t help. Lucifer could be standing in front of me, and I…_

Sam stepped into the library and came to a stop, his train of thought tumbling down the mountainside. By the looks he got from Bobby and Dean, something was definitely wrong, but their faces didn’t tell him what. Sam looked over his shoulder at Castiel, but the angel just gave him another gentle push and stepped into the room with him.

It was all so confusing. He just wanted to sleep. He _needed_ to sleep.

“So…” Sam shuffled over to the couch and collapsed in the seat next to his brother. “What’s…?” He didn’t have to finish the sentence, did he?

Dean wet his lips and inhaled slowly, mouth moving in silent words for a moment before he finally asked, “How, uh… how are you feeling?”

Sam blinked, confused and increasingly concerned, but he couldn’t manage much more than a quiet, “Better.” He shrugged. “Tired. I was actually…” He indicated the stairs to the second floor with a slight point.

“Okay, well…” Dean cleared his throat, glancing at Bobby in an almost… uncertain way, like he was waiting for a cue. “We, uh, we gotta talk about something—something important—so, uh…” He wet his lips and rubbed his forehead for a second. “We need to, uh, to talk about you, actually. With the—with the whole detox thing, I just, uh—”

Sam heaved a sigh and blinked sluggishly. “Can we talk later?”

Dean cleared his throat again and shook his head. “Uh, no. We’re actually pretty worried about you, so—”

“I’m fine,” Sam muttered, leaning back against the couch. “Just tired.”

Dean exhaled sharply, almost like a snort, but softer and heavy with sadness. “You’re fine.” It wasn’t a question, but there was a distinct note of disbelief. “You’re…” He inhaled again, blinking rapidly when his eyes started to water. “Look, I kinda… I don’t know.” He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was stupid, but when I saw you on demon blood, I started thinking about Ruby, and how, y’know, how you used to be hooked on the stuff pretty hardcore, and she was kinda your dealer, or whatever, and I just… needed to check. I had to get the thought out of my head.”

Sam frowned slightly. “You…?” He glanced down and saw his phone in Dean’s hand. “Oh.” Dean must have gone through his phone. “Okay.” He looked back up at Dean’s face, his brain too fried to make the connections Dean clearly expected him to make. “I’m tired, Dean. Just…” He trailed off yet again.

Dean cleared his throat and rubbed his forehead. “Okay, well, uh, I was in your call log. I wasn’t—I wasn’t really looking for—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Bobby threw his hands up and extended one to indicate Sam while the other fell back to the desk. “Sam, you called the suicide hotline six hundred times in the past two years.”

“Five hundred and ninety-one,” Castiel helpfully corrected, concern creasing his brow as he gazed at Sam with his ever-wide, ever-blue eyes.

Sam blinked slowly, processing what he had just been told. He looked to Dean for help, trying to glean information from Dean’s expression.

Dean’s eyes were glassy, his lip pulled up ever-so-slightly as the urge to cry increased. His brow was crinkled, confusion and frustration and grief colliding on his features. It was raw and hurt and… and… and Sam didn’t know what else.

Sam blinked again, opening his mouth. “Uh… I…” Somewhere deep, deep inside, Sam was panicking. “You…” But it never made it past the conceptual level. “I’m tired.”

Dean inhaled sharply. “Can you focus, please? This is kinda huge. You were—you _are_ —” He huffed. “I mean, Sam, you want to…” Dean couldn’t make himself say it.

“Dean…” Sam sighed heavily. “I’m tired, I can’t…” He slowly shook his head, eyelids fluttering. “I can’t… _talk…_ or think… please, I just… wanna sleep…”

“Sammy?” All irritation was gone, replaced by fear, and Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders. “Hey, do I need to take you to a hospital?”

Sam stared blankly, confused but incapable of expression.

“Sam.” Dean gave him a little shake. “Did you _take something?_ ”

Sam shook his head, eyes fluttering again before drifting shut.

Dean didn’t say anything, and the sounds of shifting clothes said he was doing… something.

Sam didn’t know. Sam didn’t care. He started shifting himself into a better sleeping position, pulling away from Dean to lay against the arm of the couch. “Sorry,” he breathed.

For everything. For dropping something so shocking on them like a bombshell and leaving them without answers. For the lying and the hiding and everything else they would blame him for; everything he _deserved_ to be blamed for. For being broken. For everything wrong about him.

But he couldn’t manage all that, so he just whispered another ‘sorry,’ and let the darkness take him down.

* * *

When Sam woke up again, he found Dean kneeling by the couch and shaking his shoulder. Dean had what appeared to be a chocolate milkshake, and despite Sam insisting he wasn’t hungry, Dean demanded he drink at least half of it.

_“You gotta eat something, Sammy.”_

It definitely _tasted_ like a chocolate milkshake, and it was delicious, but Sam could still only manage the half that Dean required. Dean said that was okay, and then he played with Sam’s hair until Sam fell asleep.

Sam woke up again in six hours, and Dean did the same thing.

_“Pills… n’my bag… in the lining…”_

Sam passed out again, and when he came to, blue eyes had replaced green.

_“Sam, you need to take nourishment. Drink this.”_

Sam did as he was told and tumbled down, coming back up to green eyes back in play. Except the eyes were a little red and puffy, like they had been crying, like they had been rubbed obsessively for hours.

_“Come on, Sammy. Just a little more.”_

Sam tried to figure out what was wrong with the eyes. It was the only thing that had held his attention in… however long he had been on the couch.

_“S’okay, Sammy. You’ll be fine. I’m gonna fix this.”_

At some point, Sam woke up enough to stumble to the bathroom to relieve himself, briefly noting Bobby asleep in his wheelchair nearby. Sam stayed under for quite a while after that.

When he did wake up, Dean tried to get him to eat some eggs, but he couldn’t. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He went back to sleep.

Sam woke up with the sun in the west.

_“You just keep hangin’ in there, boy. We’ve gotcha.”_

Sam woke up with the sun in the east. He rolled over and went back to sleep, slept until it was nighttime, refused food, and slept until the sun was back in the east again.

Sam wasn’t really sure how long he went on like that. He remembered someone coming to see him, remembered slurring out some answers to questions. He remembered lying. He remembered a combination of annoyance and sheepishness when he was told self-medication was unhealthy and dangerous, like he didn’t already know. He remembered worried faces perpetually hovering in doorways. He knew time was passing, he knew he was growing a beard, he knew he was starting to smell.

Dean tried to get him to shower, and when Sam said he couldn’t, Dean opted for a bath instead. Sam knew he could make it to the bathroom, so he agreed. His pants were easy enough to get rid of, but he had to sit down to get his shirt, not having the strength to stay standing until the task was done. He wound up needing Dean’s help with that, too, after a two-minute battle with a button resulted in frustrated tears. He sat in the bathtub, watched it fill up with a dazed expression.

_“So… is anybody home? Or are you still sleeping internally?”_

Sam didn’t speak through the ordeal. He let Dean wash his hair, washed his upper body, and then struggled to stand through the process of drying himself. Dean had to help with that, and he had to help Sam get dressed. Even with all that assistance, Sam barely made it back to the couch, where he tumbled onto the cushions with a racing heart, aching muscles, and swirls of black and white flashing back and forth across his eyes.

Dean asked if he was okay.

Sam answered by passing out.

Sam woke up, took his pills with a milkshake, and went back to bed.

It was day eleven, according to Dean, when Sam quietly asked for a book to read. He managed to read a chapter and a half—while consuming an entire milkshake, no less—before he had to sleep again.

On day twelve, he ate some eggs with his milkshake, which Dean finally explained was made with various nutritional drinks, supplements, and powders. Dean had somehow done the impossible and made Ensure taste good.

That same day, Sam tried to read again, but his brain couldn’t process the sentences; it ended in more frustrated tears and a long nap where he drooled on the pages.

He read another chapter on day thirteen.

He ate a scrambled egg on day fourteen.

He did neither on day fifteen.

On day sixteen, he couldn’t even manage a milkshake.

He bathed on his own on day seventeen, though he still couldn’t manage a shower.

He played cards with Dean, Castiel, and Bobby on day eighteen. He actually won a couple times, and he cracked a joke about having the perfect poker face because he was dead inside. That sort of dampened the mood, so he didn’t tell anymore jokes after that.

He slept all the way through day nineteen.

He asked for his iPod on day twenty; music made him smile from time to time.

On day twenty-one, he said he was ready to try and talk.

* * *

Sam held his mug with both hands, inhaling the steam from his beverage with a weak smile. “Never would have pegged you for a tea-making master, but this brew says you’ve been holding out on me.”

Dean leaned back against his end of the couch with a quiet chuckle, pulling one leg onto the cushions between them and making himself comfortable. “You don’t know everything about me,” he teased.

Sam smiled again, a little stronger but gone more quickly, and he tried to shift his focus to Castiel. His eyes wouldn’t really cooperate, fixating on the lapels of Castiel’s coat instead; eye contact was entirely too difficult.

“You should get some, too.” Sam let his eyes wander over to the teapot.

For a moment, it looked like Castiel would refuse—which made sense; he didn’t need sustenance and struggled with the human concept of comfort food—but in the end, he took an empty cup and poured himself a drink.

Sam looked down at his mug again. “So… I’m depressed.” He blinked. “That’s a thing.”

There was a pause, and then Dean started speaking carefully. “Yeah… definitely a thing. You wanna… tell us about that?”

Sam snorted. “No.” He was still staring at his cup. “But I get the feeling it’s not optional.”

“No kidding.” Dean sucked in a quick breath, like he wished he could take the words back. “Sorry. I just meant…” He sighed. “No, it’s not optional. We gotta talk about this.”

Sam blinked down at his drink. “Don’t do that.” He wanted to look at Dean, but his head wouldn’t move. “Don’t… treat me like I’m fragile. I’m not that much of a wreck.” Yes, he was.

Dean shifted on the couch, his legs moving in Sam’s peripherals. “Look, Sam, if… y’know, if you break your arm, I’m not gonna wrestle with you like I normally do, and I’m gonna avoid hitting it, and I’m gonna help you out.”

Sam somehow got his head up. “This isn’t a broken arm. I don’t need you to walk on eggshells so you don’t hurt my feelings, okay?” He actually felt a little indignant at the implication that he _did_ need that kind of treatment.

Though, to be fair, he really did.

“Sam.” Bobby drew Sam’s attention to the desk he was sitting behind, his voice somehow hard and soft at the same time. “It’s not that simple, and you’re smart enough to know that. You don’t kick a man when he’s down, and it just so happens you’re down more often than we realized. You’ll get better, and we’ll make up for all the harassing, but for now…” He held out his hands in a ‘down boy’ gesture. “Take it easy.”

Sam blinked, stuck on the words ‘you’ll get better.’ It cut into his chest like a knife, the first glimpse of hope he had seen in months. _He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how bad it is. He doesn’t know all the things you’ve tried. He doesn’t know you can’t get better._ But Bobby’s hope wasn’t killed quite as easily as Sam’s, and that little flicker of light toughed out the spell of darkness.

“So.” Dean cleared his throat and shifted again. “You were gonna tell us about…” He gestured vaguely with his hand. “All that.”

Sam looked at Dean for a second, then at Bobby, and then at Castiel, who was sitting on a chair to Sam’s left. Then Sam looked back at Dean and the hopeful, albeit worried look on his face.

Sam swallowed and nodded a few times. “Yeah, okay.” He took a breath and tried to get his usual string of lies straight in his head. “So… you know it started two years ago. It was, um…” He dropped his gaze back down to his tea, knowing it would be easier if he didn’t have to look at anyone. “Do you remember… when Gabriel trapped us in that time loop?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Uh, Sam and I got trapped in a Tuesday.” It took Sam a moment to realize Dean was explaining the incident to Bobby and Castiel. “I kept dying over and over, like dozens—”

“Hundreds,” Sam interjected.

“…hundreds of times.” Then, to Sam. “I remember it.”

Sam inhaled slowly. “Well, uh, well there’s a part of it you don’t remember. Before Gabriel let us out… he fake let us out.”

“Fake let us out?” Dean echoed.

“I woke up, and it was Wednesday… and the loop was broken… but you died again. You were, uh, stabbed in the motel parking lot.” Sam had never stared so intensely at a drink. “But this time, the loop didn’t start over. You were just… gone. And, um, and six months passed, and during those months, I… I did things.” Maybe not apocalyptic things, but things. “And then Bobby said… that he found some ritual, some… thing to bring you back. He said we would need to bleed someone dry, and…” He laughed bitterly, tears thick in his voice, head shaking slightly. “You know, even high on demon blood, I hesitated to kill that nurse, but after six months in Gabriel’s pocket universe…” He shook his head again, watching the tea ripple with the trembling of his hands. “Bobby said we’d need to kill someone, and I was like, ‘Cool,’ and headed for the door. Just—just like that.” He bit his lip and inhaled through his nose, trying to stop the flood of tears, but he wasn’t very successful.

“Woah, easy,” Dean muttered, taking the cup from Sam’s hands and setting it aside.

Sam held his hands in place, taking deep breaths and tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. He sniffed and chewed on his lips again. “Ah, this is pathetic.” He sniffed again, hands falling to his lap as he laughed. “Sorry. I got it, just—just gimme a sec.”

“Sam, that’s not pathetic. That’s—that would’ve been… I mean…” Dean trailed off, still making faint noises as he searched for words.

Something hit the couch, and Sam actually responded in a normal amount of time, looking down to find a tissue box between them.

“There,” Bobby said, wheeling back into place behind his desk.

“Thanks,” Sam muttered, grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose. He did the same thing again and then took a few more breaths. “I, uh, I’m good. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Bobby replied simply.

Sam nodded and sniffed again. _Well, that happened._ Still, it was a distraction from what they actually wanted to talk about. Sam would rather discuss the impact of trauma than a failure to function that came and went with little to no reason. He would rather talk about his sensitivity to waking nightmares than his sensitivity to his own self-deprecating thoughts.

“Sam.”

Sam turned his head slightly, looking in Castiel’s direction and waiting.

“I… I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I cannot apologize enough for what my brother did to you. I…”

Sam shook his head before Castiel could finish. “He was trying to help, Cas.” He sniffed, eyes locking onto a spot on the carpet near-ish to Castiel’s shoes. “That’s the thing, y’know? He was showing me what would happen if I didn’t—if I didn’t let Dean go. But when Dean died for real, and Ruby told me about…” Sam shook his head with an angry laugh. “There should’ve been a giant neon sign. ‘Attention: You’ve Played This Level Before. It Ended Horribly.’ But I just… did the exact same thing all over again and, unsurprisingly, wound up bleeding someone dry and—”

Sam sucked in a breath and lifted a hand to his face, placing the inside of his hand along his forehead to shield his eyes. “I can’t—I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m sorry, I thought I could—” He shook his head, disgusted with himself. “I can’t do this. I’m tired. I’m sorry.”

For a moment, there was nothing, and then Dean startled to life and got off the couch. “Yeah, yeah, sure, of course. Uh, let me just—” He grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and handed it over. “Here. Just, uh, lay down. Get some sleep. Sorry we… overwhelmed you.”

Sam took the blanket without looking anywhere near Dean’s face. He could tell just from the disjointed, uncharacteristically straightforward sentences that Dean was disturbed and shocked.

Because of Sam.

 _I can’t do this._ But he didn’t know how to fix it. They knew about the depression, and they weren’t going to stop digging, and he couldn’t take that back. He couldn’t fix it, couldn’t make it go away.

But he could sleep, and if he was asleep, the problems temporarily ceased to exist. So, he grabbed his iPod from the floor, shoved his headphones in, curled up on the couch, and did exactly that.

* * *

“I don’t want to talk about yesterday.” Sam pulled his blanket around himself a little tighter. “Can’t you just… ask questions and let me answer instead of me telling the whole story?”

Dean and Bobby exchanged a glance, but they ultimately nodded.

Dean started them off.

“Uh… so, you called the hotline, but… did you ever try anything?”

Sam shook his head. “No, it never got that far.” Yes, four times.

Dean nodded his head, and Bobby took the next question.

“How long have you been on medication?”

Sam pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “Uh… about a year? Maybe a little more.” More like five years, plus a little more. “I know it’s not right, but… you know, people will deal anything. So… I did the research, and…” That wasn’t how he started out, but that was pretty much how he had gotten his supply since he left Stanford. So, not a total lie.

Dean cleared his throat. “We, uh, we had someone come look at you while you were still half out of it. Do you… want to see him again?”

Sam shrugged and pursed his lips. “Eh.” Yes. “I don’t think it’ll do a lot of good. I mean, he can give me pointers, I guess, but… it’s not like we can have him ship prescriptions to us. We’re always moving around.” Actually, Sam handling his own medication was possibly the worst plan in the history of bad plans, and a psychiatrist would be extremely helpful.

“You can send’em here. Or get’em refilled at the local pharmacy, and I can pick’em up.” Bobby huffed, giving both Sam and Dean a displeased stare. “If I’ve got your refills, I might actually see you boys more than once a month.”

 _Thank God._ Sam offered a small smile. “I mean, yeah. If you wanna do that…” He looked at Dean. “It’s more driving, and…” he side-eyed Bobby, “…we’d have to put up with _him_ more often.”

Dean groaned theatrically. “Ugh. I don’t know if that’s worth the payoff, Sam. I just—I don’t know if I can handle that. I mean, every month?”

Sam held up a finger. “Well, if we do if by mail order, it’s once every _three_ months.”

Dean heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, okay. I think I can do that.”

Bobby deadpanned. “Ha ha. You’re hilarious.”

Dean smiled—it was the first smile Sam had seen in a while—and leaned back in his seat. “If you could get the meds, Bobby, that would be awesome.” He looked at Sam then, eyes hopeful. “So, I’ll schedule another appointment for you?”

Sam nodded. “Sounds good.” _Sounds amazing. Sounds freaking fantastic!_

“Cool.” Dean nodded and smiled, clearly pleased. Sam half expected him to make the call right then and there.

“Sam…” Castiel spoke up from where he stood in the archway to the kitchen, squinting at the floor, frozen in the same position he had held since the beginning of the conversation. “Do you hurt yourself?”

“Cas!” Dean scolded. “He’s depressed, not freaking _emo_.”

Castiel looked up and then tilted his head, ever curious and confused. “I apologize. I was under the impression the two were often related.”

Sam gave Castiel a small smile. “They are, and it’s nice of you to ask. But no, I don’t hurt myself.” Finally, something he could answer honestly.

Because Sam didn’t really hurt himself. Sure, he took showers that were a little too hot, and he held onto cups and plates that burned his hands. And yeah, maybe he kinda liked having cuts and scrapes and bruises from hunting, but that wasn’t the same as cutting with a razor or burning with a lighter. So what if he liked the way his knuckles burned and bled while he punched out a wall? That was a macho thing. It made him feel better because it was violent, and he was a man, and that was just the natural order of things. It had nothing to do with pain and aggression letting out some of that ever-building pressure, some of that overwhelming urge to cry and scream and murder all in one go.

And even if it did, that wasn’t his depression. That was his anxiety.

So, not a lie. Maybe a deception, but not a _lie._

“Look, I…” Sam struggled with himself for a moment and then let out a soft sigh. “I know it’s kinda hard to come to terms with… but I’m still me.” He laughed nervously and braved a glance in Dean’s direction. “It’s probably the worst part of me, but… it’s me.” He laughed again. “You guys know now, and I can… I can come to you for help.” Nope. “I can talk to you instead of some stranger over the phone.” Never. “I mean, if… if I’m honest…” what a joke, “…I’ve faked a lot of migraines because I was having a bad day. You know, like the bad days I had recently. I couldn’t get out of bed, so…” He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck again. “But now I can tell you the real reason.”

Dean spoke softly, his face just outside Sam’s field of vision. “What can I… what can we do to help?”

Sam shook his head with a reluctant smile and a shrug. “Nothing. If I can’t get out of bed… then I can’t get out of bed.” He learned that the hard way back at Stanford, when he passed out in the shower and busted his head on the faucet. “Just help me keep up with my meds and wait it out.” _And make me feel like I’m not a total freak._

“Sam, we can’t… not do _something._ ” Dean ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. “You’re telling me you’ve been fighting this thing for two years, and in all that time, I never noticed. How am I supposed to—”

“You can’t,” Sam interrupted. “You can’t protect me from this. You can’t salt and burn this, and if you try, I’m gonna be the one who ends up burned, so just...” He looked at Dean, fatigue darkening his eyes, and he offered a wilted smirk. “I told you, it’s still me. It’s part of me. It’s not going anywhere.” He sighed. “I just want to go back to the way it was.”

That was simultaneously the biggest lie and purest truth in the whole conversation. Because Sam wanted a support system, and he wanted his family to understand, and he wanted to have someone on his side again. But he didn’t want to reach for that and have the floor fall out from under him, and he didn’t want to work for it only to find the work was too hard. It was a hope-filled, wonderful, exhausting, terrifying notion.

“Sammy, we… we can’t go back to the way it was. I don’t _want_ to go back to that.” Dean shook his head a few times. “I don’t ever want to go back to that.”

Sam pressed his lips together for a moment. “Well, it won’t be exactly like it was. Like I said, you guys know now, so… y’know, we’ll learn as we go.” He laughed softly and spread his hands. “I mean, it’s not like we can stop what we’re doing and have daily therapy sessions. It’s the Apocalypse. We can’t just, ‘Oops, timeout guys, we need to get Sam’s brain back in order. How’s next year sound, Satan?’” He spread his hands a little more and then dropped them back into his lap.

Silence traveled around the room. Dean sat on his half of the couch, looking like he wanted to object but knowing Sam was right. Bobby glared downward and off to the side, clearly unhappy but realizing the same thing Dean did. Castiel stood in the same place, with the same stiff posture he always had, not showing a single thing on his face.

“Look, guys…” Sam inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I’m still here. It’s been two years,” five years, “and I haven’t put a bullet in my mouth yet,” just pills, “so… I know it’s a lot, but it isn’t as bad as it sounds.” It was worse, it was _so much worse._ “Just keep an eye on me, and I’ll let you know when I’m not doing well, and… we’ll muddle through, like we always do.”

They all looked at him, Dean’s face showing more conflict than anyone else’s, but in the end, even he conceded.

“If that’s what you want, Sammy.”

Sam smiled. “It is.” Not. Not even a little bit.

But for all the time he spent not-so-subconsciously wishing someone would stumble upon his pitiful state and let him spill the truth about the mess in his brain, when presented with the opportunity to do just that, he realized… he didn’t know how.

* * *

When the dead rose in Sioux Falls, Sam experienced a kind of loneliness he was certain he never had before. Watching Bobby and Karen… watching as families were pieced back together… watching everyone around him experience the kind of love and warmth he hadn’t been able to get out of anyone in years.

Dean was the only other person unhappy about the resurrections, and while company helped to take the edge off, it wasn’t enough.

Sam felt terrible about it, but he was almost happy when the resurrections went south. It wasn’t right, and he knew that, but there was something incredibly embittering about seeing people get their loved ones back completely out of the blue, when he couldn’t even get his will to live back, and he was trying _so hard_.

On the bright side, Sam had had the ability to actually _feel_ terrible and jealous and guilty. So that, at least, was a step in the right direction.

Sam couldn’t really share details when he called the hotline that night, but he got the general point across, so that was a plus. Because he _did_ call the hotline. Because there was no way he was telling Castiel or Bobby or Dean about his shameful thoughts and feelings. Because Bobby didn’t deserve to deal with Sam’s problems along with the grief of losing Karen again, and Dean didn’t need any more stress breaking him down, and Castiel… well, honestly, Castiel probably didn’t care. Sam was pretty sure Castiel was only invested in Sam because Dean would cut him off otherwise.

But Sam had the hotline. He always had the hotline.

Except when he was in Heaven. He couldn’t call anyone when his mother ignored his attempt to talk to her, or when he was standing face-to-face with Ash and Pamela, or when he started hating himself for having the wrong favorite memories. Once he was back on Earth, of course, he could call again.

But by then it was too late.

* * *

Sam held the amulet in shaking hands, eyes misting up as he felt, for the first time in a long time, something other than numbness or anger or the vague notion of sadness. He felt pain. He felt fear and desperation, and it _hurt._

He opened his mouth to call out, to beg Dean to come back, but he couldn’t get the words past his lips. His throat went tight, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth as his brain ran over the long list of reasons why he needed to keep his mouth shut.

_You deserve this. You did this to him. You hurt him. You were selfish and narcissistic, and he doesn’t care about your little tantrum. He’s done with you. He hates you. And he should. It’s a miracle he stuck around this long. You should be grateful. All he’s done for you, and this is how you treat him? He deserves better. And you deserve this._

Sam tore his phone out of his pocket, breathing hard and frantically dialing that old, familiar number. He pressed the device to his ear, pulling his knees up to his chest and falling against the wall as a result.

 _How could you be so callous? Did you really never think about how Flagstaff affected him? How it hurt him when you left? No. No, you were too busy thinking about yourself and how unhappy you were. For someone who spends so much time wishing people would notice his suffering, you do a terrible job of noticing pain in other people. When’s the last time you got Dean to tell you how_ he _really is? Have you ever asked_ him _if he_ _wants to get up in the morning? No, of course not. You’re too busy wallowing in self-pity to do something like that. You’re too selfish to care about anyone but yourself._

“Hello? Hello, is anyone there?”

Sam jolted, torn from his thoughts, and pulled the phone away from his ear to look at it. His breath got shorter, tears welling up in his eyes, and he snapped it shut. He wasn’t having a hotline day. It was a crisis day. It was a get-away-from-the-knives-and-guns-and-pills day. It was a don’t-be-alone-for-more-than-five-minutes day. It was a locate-the-closest-hospital day.

It was a you’re-going-to-try-again day.

_Oh, sure. Commit suicide right after a fight with Dean so he carries that guilt for the rest of his life. Because it doesn’t matter what he’s feeling, it only matters what you’re feeling, right? That’s all you care about. Always looking out for number one. Never caring about Dean or Dad or Bobby… just yourself. Always yourself._

Sam scrambled to his feet and started to pace, opening his phone again and letting his finger hover over the three. He trembled and tried to get air down the swollen passages of his throat. The motel room fading into blurred colors until all he could see clearly was the phone in his hands.

 _Bobby only tolerates you because he loves Dean. Dean has always been his favorite. You just get in the way. He told you to lose his number, and we both know he really meant it, so do you_ really _think he wants to get a call from you? Especially one where you’re whining about your teen girl drama? He tried to help—they all did—and you wouldn’t let them. This is what you deserve. You did this to yourself._

Sam snapped the phone shut and pressed it to his stomach, holding it there with both hands as he paced faster, breaths short and broken. He saw the door hanging open from when Dean left, and he went over and closed it. He started to pace again, mind racing with a thousand thoughts that all came up blank when he tried to look at them.

Sam walked over to Dean’s bed and lifted the pillow Dean had used, revealing a loaded pistol. Dean always kept one under his pillow; Sam had, too, before Dean started keeping the guns under lock and key. Because Dean had started keeping the guns under lock and key. Because Dean knew about Sam’s suicidal ideation, and he still threw out the amulet, because he didn’t care about Sam, because Sam had screwed everything up again, because—

Sam gasped and backed away from the bed, swaying as he turned away and started pacing again. _No, no, no. I can’t. I can’t let Dean find me like that. He deserves better than this. He deserves better than me._

Sam whirled around and went back to the bed. _I know he does, but I can’t do this anymore!_ He reached out to take the gun and then pulled his hand back, as if he had been burned. _I don’t want to die. I just want to get better._

_You’re never going to get better. You’ve known that for over a year now, you just can’t bring yourself to admit it. You’re never going to get better, Sam, because you don’t deserve to get better. You deserve to suffer. You’re broken and useless and tainted. You destroy everything you touch, and if there is anyone on this planet who deserves to crave death, it’s you._

Sam made another grab for the gun, and that time, he picked it up and disengaged the safety.

But then he stopped again.

 _You’re disgusting. Using his instincts to get what you want. Using his ‘training’ to make him care for you above all else. You selfish, worthless, disgusting waste of space. Dean was right about you. All that anger and resentment when you left for Stanford, when you_ abandoned _him; it was all justified._

Sam looked at the phone in his other hand. He flipped it open. He looked at the keypad.

He looked at the keypad for a very long time.

He pressed the two. He held it until speed dial kicked in. He put the phone to his ear. He blinked. He sniffed. He swallowed.

Dean rejected the call after two rings.

Sam bit down on his lip and lowered his phone, closing it and tucking it into his pocket. He looked at the gun again, feeling its weight in his hand. He wet his lips.

_What good is it going to do? Heaven brought you back once. They can do it again… and again… and again… it’s never going to end._

Sam choked out a sob and leaned on the bed, shaking his head. _No… no, no, no…_

_Yeah. Sucks, doesn’t it? You can kill yourself over and over, and they’ll just keep bringing you back. They’ll just keep throwing you right back into suffering. It’s fitting, don’t you think? You started the Apocalypse. You condemned the entire world for your ego. It’s only fair that you don’t get to take the easy way out._

Sam sniffed and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears, watching the hot droplets strike the blood-spattered comforter. _No, please…_

_You’ve given Lucifer the perfect way to get in your head. If he offered to take these feelings away, you’d agree to be his vessel, wouldn’t you? Who cares if the world is destroyed when Sam Winchester is depressed?_

Sam let go of the gun and straightened up, wiping his face. _No, no, no. No. This isn’t what I want._ He took a deep, shuddering breath.

_Maybe not, but there’s no other way out. Your best chance is to keep killing yourself until Heaven and Hell either let you stay dead or fix you. If you’re even fixable at this point._

Sam staggered backward, the wind knocked completely out of him, one hand clutching his chest through his shirt. He opened his mouth and tried to suck air down into his rapidly compressing chest cavity, but he couldn’t.

 _No, I can. I can_. _It just feels like I can’t. I’m not dying. I have oxygen. I’m okay. I’m okay._

But it didn’t feel okay. It didn’t feel okay at all, and the tears had already begun to well up in his eyes, and his hands shook as he grappled with the hem of his shirt, and the struggle to get it up and over his head made him feel like his entire body was wrapped in a sheet, slowly suffocating as he fought. He tossed his shirt aside and rushed into the bathroom, turning on the cold water. He ducked his head under and waited a second or two—waited until the liquid ice soaked into his hair and started spreading over his scalp and down his neck—and then he pulled it out.

He panted, bracing his arms on the sides of the sink, shuddering as the cold water dripped from his nose and chin. He slowly tilted his head up and looked at himself in the mirror, meeting his own bloodshot eyes, underlined with shadows he could no longer recognize his face without. He inhaled, and exhaled, and swallowed, and blinked, and inhaled, and exhaled, and whimpered.

_You aren’t any better. You’re in the exact same place as the night you opened the Cage. Different motel bathroom, same mental breakdown. Actually, this one might be worse. And it’s still all your fault, and you still deserve it._

Sam reached up with one hand and rubbed his face before putting it back on the edge of the sink. He couldn’t use the same fix as last time. He couldn’t take an Ativan.

_Because you’ll swallow the whole bottle._

Sam looked down at his right hand, looked at the amulet still tangled around his hand. _No. I can’t do that to Dean. I won’t. I won’t do it._ He doubled over, heart pounding against his sternum, muscles wound tight around his ribcage.

_You’ve got two different antidepressants in the bag. You’ve got a gun and the demon knife, which would probably world especially well on something like you. You’ve got a belt. You’ve got a bathtub and electricity. Just do it. You deserve it. You know it won’t work, you know Heaven will bring you back, and you know it’s all pointless. So don’t think, just do it. Just kill yourself. Do everyone a favor._

Sam choked out a sob, his head spinning and throbbing and aching. He blinked rapidly to clear his blurring vision. _If it won’t work, there’s no point. It would just be another cry for attention. I’m better than that._

_Are you though? Are you really?_

Sam grit his teeth and threw his fist out, watching the mirror break, watching the fragments fall into the sink. He kept his knuckles pressed to the glass, exhaling with the sudden rush of relief, watching the blood soak into the cord of Dean’s necklace—not Dean’s, he didn’t want it anymore, didn’t want _Sam_ anymore—watching the amulet develop a thin sheen of crimson over gold.

_That could work._

Sam drew his fist back and hit the mirror again, relishing the pain. Because there was a part of Sam—a big part, a desperate part—that didn’t care how he killed the pain. It hurt to be alive, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to not hurt at all, and suicide was no longer an out. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to suffer. And his internal monologue was right; Lucifer had the perfect bribe, and Sam didn’t know if he would be able to say ‘no’ if he were offered relief, even if it came from the Devil.

So Sam hit the mirror again. He hit it again… and again… and again… because he just didn’t care. He _hurt_ , and he was _tired,_ and he was done. He just wanted it to be over, and hitting the mirror helped, so he hit the mirror again, and again, and again, and faster, and harder, and again, again, _again—_

Someone grabbed him from behind—he _screamed_ —wrapping their arms around his torso and pulling him away from the wall.

“Sam, stop,” a low voice rumbled in his ear.

Sam couldn’t process the need to keep a secret; couldn’t process anything but terror. “Castiel, stop! Stop, I can’t breathe! Let me go!” He thrashed around, trying to hit Castiel, pulling against the hold with everything he had. “Let go, let go, let go!”

“Sam, there’s nothing wrong with your lungs and throat,” Castiel assured, his voice soothingly calm but nauseatingly close, close, close, everything was _too close._

“I can’t _breathe,_ Cas! I can’t—I can’t—”

He couldn’t breathe. His skin was burning, and the walls were closing in, and everything was getting tighter and smaller and hotter, and he was trapped, and he couldn’t get out, and he couldn’t breathe, and smaller, tighter, hotter, closer, choking, screaming, help, help, help, help, _help, help, help, help—_

Castiel let go and Sam tore away, stumbling over himself and collapsing on the floor with a painful thud. He rolled onto his back and panted, open-mouthed, every muscle in his body tight with adrenaline.

“Sam?”

_—st a panic attack, just a panic attack, all in my head, it’s not real, not real, just a panic attack, no real danger, it’s all in my head, all in my head, make it stop, make it stop, make it—_

“Sam, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Sam sucked down air and turned his head enough to see Castiel kneeling on the ground beside him, looking worried and, in all honesty, a little scared.

“Sam, I want to help. How do I help?”

Sam gasped, bare chest heaving, body slick with sweat, hands and arms bloody, and hair dripping wet. He shuddered on the floor, clenching his jaw so tight he thought his teeth would break.

“Sam—”

“Tell me it’s okay.” It rushed out in one second, followed by a choked, gasping sound.

Castiel looked confused, but he didn’t hesitate long. He wet his lips and nodded seriously. “It’s okay, Sam.”

Sam turned his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes, trying not to scream and nodding his head to encourage Castiel’s actions.

“It’s…” Castiel seemed uncertain if he was supposed to say it more than once. “It’s okay, Sam.” He paused. “It’s okay, Sam.”

It was repetitive and monotonous, tinged just slightly by confusion and concern, but it was something. It was calm. It was steady. It was predictable.

It was safe.

“It’s okay, Sam. It’s okay.” Castiel’s clothing rustled, and then Sam sensed something overhead. “It’s okay, Sam.”

Sam opened his eyes to find an arm on either side of him and a Castiel hovering up above.

Castiel didn’t touch Sam. He simply stayed close, nodding emphatically as a genuine belief went into his words. “It’s okay, Sam. It’s okay.” He nodded some more, blue eyes wide and earnest. “It’s okay, Sam.”

Sam choked out a sob and nodded in return, gulping down a few more lungfuls of air. “It’s okay,” he breathed, nodding faster. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

“It is,” Castiel confirmed. “It is very okay.”

Sam tried to take deeper, slower breaths, his body temperature slowly easing its way back down to something less than an inferno. He was still trembling, and his ribs were still creaking under the invisible weight on his chest, but he could breathe a little.

“Sam?”

Sam swallowed hard and looked up at Castiel expectantly.

Castiel considered Sam for a moment, thoughtful, and then his head cocked to the side. “Dean loves you.” He said it so _simply._ “He will always love you, Sam.”

Sam clenched his jaw and tried to nod, mentally preparing himself for the captain of the Dean Defense Squad to start explaining why Dean did what he did, and how he didn’t mean it, and why it was justified…

“Dean loves you,” Castiel repeated, like it was supposed to mean something more than it did. “He’ll come back. He always comes back.”

Sam shrank in on himself, swarmed by both hope and guilt. Dean once said told Sam not to come back if he walked out, and then Dean went ahead and chased him to the church. Dean tried to tell Sam to pick a hemisphere but couldn’t stick to his guns for more than twenty-four hours. Dean would be back, like a battered woman in an abusive relationship.

And Sam was the abuser. Sam was _disgusting._ Loathsome.

“Sam, it’s okay.” Castiel frowned, clearly unhappy with the emotions on Sam’s face. “He really will come back.”

Sam shook his head and whispered, “He shouldn’t.”

Castiel squinted, tilting his head to the other side. “Sam… it’s _okay._ ”

Sam actually smiled a little. Castiel was nothing if not dogged in his following of instructions. It was endearing, and Castiel clearly wanted to help, which made Sam feel a little less unwanted.

“It’s okay, Sam.”

Sam nodded with another smile, weak and dampened by the tears and sweat on his face. “It’s okay.”

Castiel nodded seriously, and then he moved away, sitting back on his heels.

Sam reached up to wipe his face and was immediately reminded of the mirror, bits of glass digging into his shredded fingers with every movement. He dropped his hand back down with a sigh. “Don’t… don’t tell Dean about this. He’s… this is, um, it’s something different than depression.” If Dean really knew how much Sam hated himself… if Dean knew Sam had _anxiety,_ of all things… “I don’t get a heads up when this is gonna happen, so it’s not like I can warn you guys.” He looked at Castiel imploringly. “Please. It’ll just make him feel bad.”

Castiel thought about it for a moment, and then he started to nod. “I will not tell Dean. But if it happens again, I will.” He reached out and touched two fingers to Sam’s forehead. “To erase the evidence,” he explained.

Sam felt immediate relief in his hands, and he looked down to see them completely healed. He refused to admit he was a little disappointed by that.

“I…” Castiel wet his lips and glanced down at his lap for a moment. “I want to stay with you, but I also… would like to be alone right now. If you’re alright…?”

Sam immediately remembered the news Castiel had gotten upon their return from Heaven, and he quickly started nodding. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Thank you for helping me, and… if you wanna talk about, you know, what’s going—”

Castiel disappeared.

 _That’s a no._ Sam didn’t blame him, though. _He’s going through a lot right now._ They all were. _Besides…_

Castiel had come back to check on Sam. He couldn’t have been looking for Dean, because he knew Dean left. And Castiel wanted to be alone, so he wasn’t looking for company. He actually… came back… for _Sam…_ to check on _Sam…_

And if that wasn’t incredible enough all on its own, it was made twice as amazing when considering Castiel’s general distaste for Sam. Or his apparent distaste. Castiel wouldn’t have checked on Sam if he didn’t like Sam at least a little.

Sam lifted his hand to rub his face, but he was once again stopped. He stared at the amulet still tangled around his fingers, and suddenly, it didn’t really matter that Castiel might have liked him.

_“He always comes back.”_

As if on cue, Sam’s phone rang, and the ringtone said it was Dean. Sam took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and answered as solidly as he could.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” Dean still sounded mad. “I, uh, shouldn’t have rejected your call. I figured you wouldn’t have called unless it was important.” He cleared his throat and sniffed, trying to sound calmer than he was. “So, what’s up?”

Sam pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, breathing through the pain in his chest. “Uh…” He wet his lips and smiled, knowing his tone would pick up the expression. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and… I’m gonna make it up to you. I don’t know how yet, but… I’m gonna make up for all the times I screwed you over… and all the times I let you down. I promise.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was a little lower than before. Sam couldn’t pick out the emotion behind it. “I’m at a bar three blocks up from the motel. Can you walk that far, or do you…”

“No, no, I’m good. I can walk.” Sam pulled the phone away to sniff and then brought it back. “I’ll, uh… I’ll take my time walking. I know you… wanna be alone right now.”

“Mm.” Dean paused. “You’re not—?”

“No,” Sam said, maybe too quickly.

“Okay.” Dean paused again. “Just go out and turn left.”

“Got it.” Sam swallowed. “Sorry.”

Dean hung up. Sam did, too.

_“He always comes back.”_

Sam brought his hand to his face, covering his mouth to physically hold in the cries, and he could feel the amulet pressing into his lips as the tears started to roll.

_I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry._

* * *

Sam held a handful of his own hair in one hand and his phone in the other, listening to it ring and waiting for someone to pick up. He grit his teeth, fingers digging into his scalp, body trembling in the chill of the night air.

_I’m on a rooftop. How cliché._

He tried to talk when someone answered the phone, but he couldn’t get the words out. Just like the last time, Sam hung up without a word. He was _supposed_ to be telling Bobby and Castiel and Dean. They _told_ him to tell them.

_Of course they did. What else were they going to say?_

But they weren’t the kind of people who said the politically correct thing to spare feelings. Especially Castiel; he had no filter whatsoever.

_Which is exactly why you know what he really thinks. What they all think._

Sam snapped the phone shut and pressed it to his forehead, swallowing the sobs trying to rise in his throat with limited success.

_“Sam Winchester, the… Boy with the Demon Blood.”_

_“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak.”_

_“I want you to lose my number.”_

_“Sam, of course, is an abomination.”_

_“You’re a monster, Sam. A vampire. And there’s no going back.”_

“I can’t do this.” He barely breathed the words, tilting his head back to look at the stars. “I can’t. I just can’t. I tried… and I know I didn’t try hard enough, but I _did_ try.” He didn’t even know who he was talking to. “I tried. I did. I—”

Sam let out a harsh sob and looked around himself for something sharp. _Just a little. Just something to take the edge off._ He found a broken bottle—apparently, he wasn’t the only person who liked clichés—and rolled up his sleeve. _I mean, alcohol’s bad for you, too, but people drink to forget all the time. It’s not like I’m doing heroin or ecstasy. I could be doing so many worse things to cope._

Sam took a deep breath and leaned back, looking up at the stars and feeling dried tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t even realized they spilled over. He looked back down at the bottle and sniffed.

_Do it. Do it. Just to see if they notice. Or are you scared? Because deep down, you know they won’t. They know you’re suicidal, but they haven’t changed the way they treat you. You think they’ll notice the stiff movements of your arms? You think they’ll see the little flinches and winces? They would have to watch you to notice, and they don’t watch you, because they don’t care. Because all you do is run away and break things and hurt people._

Sam felt his phone vibrate and lifted his head, dragging his arm over his eyes to clear his vision. He saw the caller ID and immediately answered with a quiet, “Did you find him?”

“Yes. He was exactly where you said he would be,” Castiel replied.

“Okay.” Sam nodded, slouching against the wall with a sigh. “Take him to Bobby’s. I’m on my way.” He had just stopped by an old, abandoned building to panic a little, that’s all. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“I won’t let him out of my sight.” Castiel paused, and then his voice returned, softer than before. “Sam, are you alright?”

Sam swallowed hard and looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Not, uh—” he cleared his throat and sniffed. “Not really, Cas.” He smiled to himself. “Thanks for asking.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Castiel didn’t hesitate.

That made Sam smile a little more. “No, Cas.” He tried to hang on to the upturn of his lips for as long as possible. “But it means a lot that you asked.”

Castiel sound both disbelieving and confused. “Of course, Sam.” He paused. “I’ll… see you at Bobby’s.”

“Yeah.” Sam snapped the phone shut and looked at it for a good thirty seconds before turning his attention to his other hand. He stared again, though only for a few seconds, and then he chucked the glass across the rooftop.

_Not today._

* * *

Sam laughed.

It came out without permission, hard and bitter and dead. Hooded eyes stared at Dean with something faintly resembling amusement in them. His hands were limp at his sides, and he wore the remnants of a smirk on the corner of his mouth.

Sam could pinpoint the exact moment, down to the tenth of a second, that the will to keep trying went out of him. It was the moment the pain hit him and his chest went tight. It was the moment the muscles in his legs started to ache and twitch, quickly running out of the strength necessary to keep him from collapsing. It was the moment he was hit with a wave of such darkness, such heaviness, such an indescribable desire to _not be_ , that it could only be described as some form of death.

“Okay.” Sam nodded and turned to leave the panic room behind.

“Okay? What does that mean?” Dean sounded more confused than upset.

Sam shrugged his shoulders and grabbed onto the door handle. “It means okay. You win. You’re right.” He opened the door.

Dean took a cautious step closer, concerned. “Okay… but what does _that_ mean?”

Sam laughed again, colder, and there was a bit of cruel amusement in his voice when he looked over his shoulder and replied, “Don’t worry, Dean. I wouldn’t kill myself right after we had a fight.” He stepped out with a bitter smile still on his lips. “Unlike you, I care about what happens to the people I leave behind.”

“Hey, wait a minute.” Dean ran for the door. “Sam!”

Sam whirled on Dean, arms braced against the doorframe to keep Dean from getting out, and he snarled with a kind of beaten-down, exhausted _hatred_ he hadn’t felt in a long time. “ _What,_ Dean?” It was a good thing, too, because anger was the only thing keeping him upright. “What could you _possibly_ say to me right now?”

Dean held his hands up slightly, keeping some space between them. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Trying to what? You were being honest.” Sam’s fingers curled around the doorframe, teeth grinding at the concern in Dean’s eyes. “You never cared what your words did before. Don’t start now just because you know I want to take a dirt nap.”

“Come on, Sam, that’s not fair. It’s not that I didn’t care, I didn’t—I didn’t _know,_ man.” Dean spread his hands slightly, taking a step but then moving back, as if he could sense how much of a bad idea it was to approach. “Look, we would fight, and you would say stuff that bothered me in the moment, but… when the fight was over, it was over. I didn’t need an apology to know we were both angry and out of control and said stuff we didn’t mean. If I had known you were different, I wouldn’t have—”

“You could have known.” Sam shook, voice raising, rage heating his chest while fatigue ran through the muscles in his legs. “If you had taken a moment or two to stop pretending you knew me inside and out, you could have known.”

Dean wet his lips, and it was clear he was trying to tread carefully, but it was also clear he wasn’t getting it. “Sam… I’m sorry, okay? Obviously, we didn’t know each other as well as I thought we did.”

Sam stopped him before he could go any further. “Don’t you dare make this a two-way street. It’s _not._ You have always assumed you know what goes on in my head.” Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat, a steady burn starting at the backs of his eyes. “You never ask, and you never listen. You think you know why I hooked up with Ruby, and you think you know why I went to Stanford, and you think you know why my Heaven isn’t what you expected. Well, here’s a headline for you, Dean.” Sam threw his hands up. “You don’t!”

Dean opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t make any attempt at speech. Not that it would have mattered if he had, because Sam kept going, stuck somewhere between furious and frantic.

“You don’t know anything, because you never ask.” Sam worked his jaw for a moment, fingers curling and uncurling. “So don’t stand there and tell me we don’t understand _each other,_ like you _ever_ tried to figure me out. You _didn’t._ ”

Dean took a step forward, and he either didn’t sense the danger or didn’t care, because he got in Sam’s face to argue. “Yeah, like asking would have made any difference. How long have you been hiding the fact that you want to off yourself?”

Sam leaned forward, getting into Dean’s space as much as Dean was trying to get into his, the moisture in his eyes wavering as he teetered between hurt and anger. “Why would I _ever_ tell you the truth about that, Dean?”

“Because I’m family!” Dean shot back.

“Right,” Sam laughed, throwing his head back and retreating a step. “Right, you’re family. You’re the family that punches me when you don’t like what I have to say; who grabs me by the shirt and throws me against the nearest wall when you’re mad; who shuts me down and makes me feel like a freak for daring to think or feel something you don’t approve of.” Sam reclaimed the step he had lost, eyes narrowing as he forced Dean back. “You’re the family who acts like I’m less of a man because I actually care enough about your feelings to try and talk to you about them, like there’s nothing respectable about caring about our relationship enough to want open communication.”

“Sam?” Castiel called. “Is everything alright down there?”

Sam went on as if he hadn’t heard anything, vaguely aware of wetness on his cheeks. “You wanted me to tell you I was suicidal when telling you I was angry ended with you telling me to cram it all down so I didn’t get locked in a loony bin?”

Dean winced at that, averting his eyes. “That—that was a bad call, but—”

“You wanted me to tell you I had dark thoughts when your response to _psychic visions_ was denial and a promise to ‘fix’ me?” Sam kept going, years of anger and confusion and pain tumbling past his lips like a runaway train, every syllable sucking a little more life from his veins. “You wanted me to tell the _family_ who has no problems cutting me off for my mistakes that I’m a broken mess? That _I_ am a mistake?”

“You’re not a mistake, Sam—”

“And _that!_ ” Sam took another step forward, and Dean backed away again. “Do you _really_ think saying it is going to make me believe it? That it’s going to make it true?”

Dean averted his eyes again, but then he looked back at Sam with an expression of determination. “I know it doesn’t work like that, but we’ve got to start somewhere.”

“Have you ever considered _asking_ me where to start?” Sam threw his arms wide, his voice echoing off the walls of the panic room while his heart thundered in his chest. “Have you ever thought _maybe_ I know a few ways to make this noise in my head a little quieter?”

Dean wet his lips. “No… but I will now. I’ll—I’ll get better at it. I know I’ve made mistakes, Sam, just—just give me some time.” Dean ran a hand through his hair, looking guilty and upset and _still not getting it_. “We’ll do some more research, we’ll get in touch with that psychiatrist again, we’ll—we’ll talk about all the feelings you want.” Dean clearly didn’t want to fight.

Sam did.

“I promise, Sammy, you’re gonna get better.” Dean flashed a weak smile, trying to calm the waters. “We’re gonna fix this.”

Sam grabbed Dean by the arms and screamed, _“I don’t want to be fixed!”_

Dean stared, eyes wide and confused and fixed on Sam’s face.

“I want it to be okay that I’m not okay!” Sam shook Dean, tears rolling down his cheeks, throat quickly growing sore. “I want you to be scared with me instead of making me feel like I’m the only one losing my mind!” His body hurt—it ached and trembled and it was _done—_ and he hung his head. “I want—” he shook Dean again, “—I want to know you’re still going to love me when you find out how broken I am.”

“Sammy…” Dean sounded pained. “Of course I will.”

“Really?” Sam lifted his head again and looked at Dean with eyes more dead than alive, tears running down the half-dried tracks on his cheeks. “Because you never have before.”

Dean’s face twisted up in pain. “Sam…” He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and as he struggled to find his words, Sam reached his limit.

“Just leave me alone.” Sam heard his own voice rasping back at him, and he dropped Dean’s arms. “Just…” He shook his head and turned around, making a beeline for the stairs.

“Sam—” Castiel tried.

Sam held up a hand to shield himself as he ducked around Castiel, looking the other way so he didn’t have to see the disappointment and disapproval and pity.

_“Sam, of course, is an abomination.”_

Sam sucked air down into his lungs, going from the top of the basement stairs to the bottom of the flight to the second floor in two steps. He clutched the banister, black and white swirling across his vision, head throbbing.

“Sam?” Bobby called out from the library. “What happened? Hey!”

Sam only picked up speed. As much speed as he could with the tank on E. He grappled with the doorknob to the guest room, using his other arm to muffle his cries. He was a mess. He was a worthless, confused, useless, childish mess.

_“You were reckless and selfish and arrogant… If, by some miracle, we pull this off, I want you to lose my number. You understand me?”_

Sam choked out another cry and stepped into the room, shutting the door and falling against it for a moment to catch his breath. It was only a few more feet to the bed, but he honestly didn’t know if he could make it.

_“You’re angry, you’re self-righteous. Lucifer’s gonna wear you to the prom, man. It’s just a matter of time.”_

Sam’s knees buckled and he sank to the ground, wrapping both arms around his head and wishing with every fiber in his being that he would just pass out. _I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore._ He clenched his jaw and tried to hold in the sobs working their way up his throat, but he couldn’t. He fell onto his side, not at all minding when his head smacked the baseboard, and he closed his eyes.

_“I just… I don’t believe.”_

Mercifully, he was unconscious before Dean could finish.

* * *

 _"Am I worthless? Am I filthy?_  
Am I too far gone for the remedy?  
Will you help me? ‘Cause I’m dying,  
To be something more than a memory.

 _If I reach out, can I trust you?_  
Will you help me see the light of one more day?  
Take the bullets away; take the bullets away!”

_-Take The Bullets Away, We As Human_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha. Hahaha. Hahahahahaha. Leave me alone to die.


	2. Chapter 2

_“I'm so afraid, cause this addiction won't break._  
_It takes and takes. And leaves me nothing, with nothing._  
_I feel alone. I feel there's nobody out there. I'm all alone._  
_I could just end this right here._  
  
_Cause I, hate myself, for who I am, for what I've done._  
_I just need some deliverance._  
_Cause I, hate myself, for who I am, for what I've done._  
_I just need some deliverance.”_

_\- Deliverance, We As Human_

* * *

“Sam? Sam, wake up. Sammy, come on.”

“This is my fault. I knew he wasn’t doing well. He told me he wasn’t, and when I asked if I could do anything, he said no, but I could tell he was lying. I should have done something. I should have at least told you. Or Bobby. I should have—”

“Cas, stop. Stop, okay? We can sort out who’s to blame later. Right now, let’s just take care of him.” Pause. “Pull the blankets back. I’m gonna get him off the floor.”

Someone grabbed Sam and lifted him up. Someone put him on the bed. Someone touched his shoe, lifting his leg and wrestling with the leather boot until it was off. Someone did the same thing to his other shoe. Someone kept talking to someone overhead.

“What do we do, Dean?”

Sam didn’t open his eyes or speak. He didn’t know if he could.

“I don’t know, Cas.”

Sam fell back asleep.

* * *

“Sammy, we gotta leave for a bit. It’s, uh, it’s a bit of a long story… but I guess the angels resurrected Adam, and they’re trying to use him as Michael’s vessel instead of me, and… well, basically, Cas and I gotta go stop it. We’ll be back, okay? I won’t say yes to Michael. I promise. I’ll be back, just… just hang in there.” Pause. “I love you.”

He felt Dean kiss him on the forehead.

_I love you, too._

* * *

Sam woke up in the dark. He had to pee, but not badly enough that he was actually going to get up. He rolled over and stared at the wall until he drifted off again.

* * *

He woke up in the dark again, and his bladder wasn’t going to be ignored that time around. He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the counter for support while he relieved himself. He flushed and started back toward his room. _Just gotta make it to the bed._ He somehow managed to get there before his shaking legs dropped him like a ragdoll, and with a heavy sigh, he was unconscious again.

* * *

“Adam’s gone. I tried to get him out, but…” Pause. “I don’t know where Cas is. He zapped himself away getting rid of some angels, and he’s not answering his phone…”

Sam felt himself move his arm, sliding it closer to Dean. He felt it dangle over the edge, palm up, fingers twitching to indicate the desire for Dean’s hand to be in his. He felt Dean comply.

Laughter. “You’re holding _my_ hand?” Soft. “Typical.” Scared. “What do I do, Sam?”

Sam felt his head jerk in a slight shake. He didn’t know what to do any more than Dean did.

He passed out again.

* * *

“Come on, Sammy, you gotta take your meds. It’ll take, like, thirty seconds.”

Sam felt his eyes blink sluggishly, his gaze drifting over to Dean. He felt numb. No embarrassment. No confusion. No fear. Nothing. Just an overwhelming need to sleep.

 He felt himself blink again. He felt his hand slide closer so Dean could give the pills to him. His brain told him that the fabric his hand brushed against was soft. He looked at the pills. He felt his hand hit his mouth, felt the pills hit his tongue, felt his head drop back to the pillow.

“Come on, Sam. Just a drink of water. Then you can sleep some more.”

He reached out for the glass, hooded eyes watching his own movements as if they were someone else’s. He took the glass and managed to hold it for all of two seconds before it clattered to the floor. He could taste half-dissolved pills on his tongue. He hated that taste.

“Here. I’ll hold it this time.”

He had no idea where the second glass came from. Had he dropped glasses before, so Dean started keeping backups? Had Dean left and come back, and Sam was so far gone he didn’t even notice?

_It doesn’t matter._

Sam felt his head lift and felt his lips settle on the rim. Dean poured some water into Sam’s mouth. Sam felt his throat contract as he swallowed the pills, a bitter taste left behind on his tongue, and then he dissolved back into the sheets.

* * *

“…strangle you, honestly. I guess I shouldn’t say that. You might be listening. I don’t know.” Pause. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it was. It happened. It happened on my watch.” Pause. “Sam, I’m so sorry. If I could go back…” Pause. “I guess that doesn’t help.” Pause. “I was angry, Sam, but I didn’t… if I had known you would…” Sigh. “Last time you were like this, it was some big, y’know, physical trauma that caused it. If I had known fighting with you could make _this_ happen, I never would have… I’m just sorry. I’m so sorry.” Pause. “I never should have believed you when you said things were the same. I shouldn’t have let it go that easily. I should have looked out for you; it’s my _job_ to look out for you, and… I shouldn’t have let it go.” Pause. “I didn’t want to think you were really that bad, because… if you were, then I missed… _so_ much… for so long… so I just…” Sniff. “You’re right, Sam, I don’t listen. I don’t know why. And maybe—maybe that’s the problem, you know, maybe—maybe I need to figure out what’s going on in my own head before I can figure out yours.” Tears. “I don’t—I don’t know.” Sniff. “Please, Sammy, just… gimme a chance. I’ll do anything, just… wake up and get better enough to talk to me. I’d listen until my ears bleed if you would just _talk_ again.” Swallow. “Just stop lying there, like you’re already dead. Please… I just want to see you happy again, and I—I don’t know how…”

* * *

“Hey, Sammy. There’s, uh, there’s a situation with some pagan gods, and Cas needs my help. Bobby’s staying here with you, and we’ll be back as soon as we can, okay?”

Wait… wasn’t Castiel missing?

“I love you.”

He felt his jaw open about a half a centimeter.

“L’vm too…”

He felt Dean kiss him on the forehead.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes and sucked in a short breath. _Holy crap._ He had experienced that in the first person. He didn’t feel his eyes open, he _opened_ them. He didn’t feel himself breathing, he _breathed_. He was still exhausted, and he was still miserable, but he _was._

“Dean…?” Sam rasped out the word, more breath than voice, and looked around the room.

It was empty, but not completely dark, and the steaming cup of coffee by the bed said someone had been sitting in the bedside chair recently. _I’m pretty sure Dean said he was leaving… and Cas was going with him…_ Something about pagan gods, if Sam remembered correctly. _Bobby wouldn’t need a chair, and he wouldn’t be able to get up here without some help, anyway, so…_

Oh, look at that. Sam was _thinking,_ too. He was following logical trains of though from one point to the next. Except he couldn’t figure out who would have been in the chair. Oh, well. It probably wasn’t important; it was probably something a healthier brain would have put together fairly quickly.

“Ugh…” Sam pushed on the mattress and slid closer to the edge of the bed. He got up carefully, but the room was still speckled with floating lights and gray spots that forced him back down. “Come on…”

Sam took a deep breath and got to his feet again, carefully getting control over his balance. He walked toward the bathroom, rubbing his face, swaying as the world tilted beneath his feet.

He felt his fingers curling around the edge of the sink, holding on for dear life to keep him from collapsing. He watched himself use the bathroom, and then he watched the handle go down, followed by swirling water.

He swore under his breath. He was back to experiencing things from a distance.

He felt himself return to the bedroom, and he felt his body hit the mattress.

He felt someone tuck him in. He heard a quiet chuckle.

He felt himself fall asleep.

* * *

“How long?”

“Uh… eight days.”

Sam nodded, eyes still closed, and inwardly berated himself. Over a week in bed from a verbal fight? From some emotional stress and personal doubts? _Pathetic._

“So… we ran into Gabriel.” Dean huffed out a weak laugh. “I punched him for the Mystery Spot thing… which I’m pretty sure broke my hand… but, y’know, totally worth it.”

Sam let out a little laugh of his own, eyes fluttering open for a second before closing again.

“He asked about you. He… kinda seemed to know a little of what was up.” Dean slowed to a stop and then inhaled, choosing his words carefully. “Did you… you know, tell him about… all this? Or was it just part of his… archangel-ness?”

Sam tried to open his eyes again with no success. “I… kinda?” He jerked his head in a little shake. “Last time… when he said he just wanted it to be over…” He took a deep breath and let it out. Talking was so hard. Being conscious was so hard. “I prayed… didn’t think he was listening… mostly just… talking out loud… I guess…”

“Okay.” Dean sounded upset… but also understanding… which was both unusual and immensely comforting. “Well, he was listening. He seemed kinda worried about you.”

Sam smiled lightly, the twitch of muscles lasting no more than two seconds.

“Cas is hovering. If I’m not in the room, he’s in the doorway, just watching from a distance with this look on his face like he’s contemplating the cosmos.”

Sam smiled a little at that.

“Bobby is cooking. I didn’t even know he liked to cook.” Dean snorted, and his chair creaked, meaning he leaned either forward or backward. “I can literally feel Dad staring down at you with his brooding and pensive face. You know, the one he passed on to you? Yeah, that one.”

Sam smiled again, but that one didn’t hold at all.

“We miss you.”

 _I miss you, too._ Sam tried to breathe. “...jus’ wan’it to be over…”

Dean took Sam’s hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “It will be. I promise.”

Sam tried to open his eyes again, but it was even more impossible than before. “Lay with me?” he mumbled, getting a little more control over his tongue only to feel the resulting exhaustion push him back into silence.

Dean didn’t reply at first, probably thinking the proposition was a little too ‘chick-flickish,’ but then he stood up. “Sure, bud.” He held onto Sam’s hand as he crawled overtop of Sam and settled on the other side of the bed. “How’s that?”

Sam rolled a little, snuggling in close and resting his head on Dean’s chest, laying their intertwined hands on Dean’s stomach. “S’nice… not…” He let out a sigh. It was so hard to talk. “Not… _doing_ this ‘lone…”

Dean squeezed Sam’s hand. “Never again, Sammy. Never again.”

Sam smiled faintly to himself as he soaked up the warmth of another human body; the comfort of knowing someone would be there to help him wake up when he couldn’t do in on his own. He held Dean’s hand a little tighter.

“M’sorry,” Sam whispered. “Didn’… mean it…” He was talking about their fight in the panic room, but he didn’t know if Dean would be able to figure that out from the slurred, incoherent word jumble.

“I think you did.” Dean clearly knew exactly what Sam was talking about, and he had a surprising lack of anger in his voice. “Maybe you don’t think it’s true… and maybe it isn’t… but I think it’s really how you feel. I think it’s how you’ve been feeling for a long time.”

Sam felt his throat spasm slightly, trying to tighten around a lump but winding up completely relaxed. His eyes felt different, maybe a little drier, in that way they always did when he wanted to cry but his body wouldn’t let him.

“M’sorry…” Sam shook his head and took a breath. “You don’ deserve this… I…” His lips and jaw continued to move, but he couldn’t quite make himself form words, and in the end, he slumped against Dean in silence. _You deserve better. I’m not good enough, and I never will be, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me._

“You don’t deserve this, either, Sammy.”

Sam shook his head. “No, you… don’t des… I’m…” He shook his head again, voice dropping to a whisper. “You should have a better brother…”

“No better brother for me than you, Sammy.”

Sam only shook his head, unable to get his mouth open again.

Dean pulled Sam in a little closer and planted a chaste kiss to his temple. “My Sammy…”

Sam buried his face in Dean’s chest and tried not to think about anything at all. He breathed in the smell of Dean’s Irish Spring soap—Dean must have showered recently—and savored the feeling of a heartbeat thrumming alongside his own.

“Go to sleep, Sammy. I gotcha.”

Sam did as he was told, and for the first time in a long time, his descent into slumber was slow and peaceful.

* * *

“C’mon, Sam. Drug time.”

Sam stayed sprawled on the mattress, eyes shut and face half-hidden in a pillow, but he mumbled a response nonetheless. “Milkshake?” He could feel drool on his cheek.

“You want a—? Yes, yeah, absolutely.” Dean sounded like he had won the lottery. “I’ll go make it right now.” He shot out of the room like a racehorse from the gate.

Sam tried to stay awake until Dean got back. He couldn’t quite manage it, but he did wake up again with minimal effort from Dean, and then he sat and slowly sipped his milkshake until the glass was empty.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was the kind of something that made Sam think maybe he could make it to the end of the tunnel.

* * *

“Oh, you’re awake. I’ll go get Dean.”

Sam reached out and caught the edge of Castiel’s trench coat. “C’mere a second.” His arm was too tired to maintain the hold, and it dropped lifelessly over the edge of the bed.

Castiel examined the hand for a moment, and then he took it in his, covering it with his other hand the same way he had when they first met. “I… am sorry, Sam. I am very sorry.”

Sam screwed up his face, not capable of expressing his confusion any other way.

“I should not have gotten drunk… and I should not have said what I said.” Castiel rubbed idle patterns on the back of Sam’s hand. “I should have stayed when you offered to talk instead of…” He heaved a sigh. “I’m afraid I’m no better at being human than I am at being an angel.”

 _Oh… that’s right, he was there for most of the fight._ Sam inhaled and exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers a little in lieu of squeezing Castiel’s hand. “Thanks for calling me.”

Castiel blinked, clearly confused.

“You called while I was…” Sam huffed out something that vaguely resembled a laugh. “I was going to do something bad, and… I told myself nobody would notice. But you… could tell something was wrong just from my voice… and…” He blinked a few times, wanting to cry but ever-incapable of producing tears. “My arms would be all cut up… if you hadn’t picked up on that… you’re a good friend, Cas…”

Castiel looked at Sam for a long moment, though Sam couldn’t quite meet his eyes, and then he tightened his grip. “I knew you were upset, but… there is still so much I don’t understand about humanity. Certain cultures have certain rules, certain genders and chemical makeups change certain responses, and… it’s all so confusing. I’m glad I was able to help you despite that.” He sighed softly, squeezing the hand again, like he didn’t know how else to offer comfort. “You look tired.”

Sam blinked slowly and hummed.

“Go back to sleep.” Castiel situated Sam’s hand on Sam’s stomach. “We’ll continue to research your condition… and we’ll find a way to fix you soon.”

Sam smiled weakly.

“Er, not that… not that it isn’t okay to be… not fixed… we simply want you to be not… un-fixed… as it seems to make you rather unhappy to be… this way.” Castiel sat down on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh, looking down at Sam with worried eyes full of confusion and uncertainty. “It’s okay, Sam. I can tell you that much. It’s okay.”

Sam flashed another smile. “You remembered…”

“Of course.” Castiel offered a small smile of his own. “It’s okay, Sam. It’s okay.”

Sam’s eyes fluttered and then began to close. “Thanks, Cas…”

“You’re welcome, Sam. It really is okay.”

Sam smiled.

* * *

Sam woke up with a fuzzy sensation in his head and a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, I know you were just up, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you. We got a lead on Pestilence. Cas and I are gonna go see what we can do.”

Sam blinked slowly and looked at Dean, confused. Pestilence?

“We’ll be back. Wish us luck.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but he passed out before he could form words.

* * *

_I have to do something._

Sam dragged himself into a sitting position and slid off the mattress. He stood up and took a few moments to regain his balance. _I can do this. I’ve been in bed long enough._ He staggered toward the pile of his belongings that had accumulated in the corner, digging through until he found a pair of pants. _I can do this._ He was already out of breath, his legs aching, but he leaned against the wall and wrestled himself into his jeans. He glanced at his belt, but there was no way he had the energy for that. He looked at the door. _Come on. Just get downstairs, get to the couch, and read some books. Do some research. You just have to sit and read; you can do that._

Sam took a deep breath and pulled himself to his knees with a grunt, sucking down another lungful of air and pushing himself to his feet. Once again, he had to take a moment to get the floor to stay still, but then he was walking. Shuffling, really, but he wasn’t going to nitpick the success.

_Okay. Hall, stairs, hall, library. Here we go._

Sam swallowed hard, his throat running dry as he gripped the handrail for dear life. He watched his feet carefully, silently cursing the old-house trademark of skinny steps, and he almost made it to the bottom.

Almost.

His foot hit the third-to-last step just as his racing heart failed to push enough blood up to his brain. He stumbled, hit the ground, and the world went black.

“What in the name of—Sam!”

Sam jerked on the floor, trying to open his eyes but finding that only gave him more of a headache. “Mm… Bobby…” He was so tired.

“Boy, what are you doing down here?”

Sam rolled over slightly and bumped into Bobby’s chair. _Right. He can’t really help me up._ Well, actually, that wasn’t true.

“Sam? You idjit… Sam, are you still there?”

Sam reached out a hand and grabbed the arm of Bobby’s wheelchair, forcing his eyes open and finding Bobby’s face. “Can I…?”

Bobby nodded, wide eyes trained on Sam like a hawk.

Sam grunted and pulled himself to his knees, stopping to catch his breath before he tried to get up. His legs were having none of it, and with a heavy thud, he was back on the floor.

“Now, don’t do anything crazy,” Bobby muttered, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder to keep him from trying again. “Just give yourself a few seconds. You tryin’ to get to the couch?”

Sam jerked his head in a nod. “Mhm.”

Bobby gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Okay. Just take a breather.”

Sam nodded again, slouching against the wheelchair and drawing his knees in close. He could feel the metal frame digging into his back, shoulder, and even the side of his head, but he didn’t care enough to move.

He _couldn’t_ move.

“What were you doing out of bed in the first place?”

Sam blinked at the bottom of the railing, his eyes having picked that particular place to fixate for the next few minutes. “I was gonna try and… do some research.”

“Sam, you’re not well. You need sleep.”

“I’ve been sleeping for two weeks!” Sam was halfway through shouting when his voice broke. He dropped his forehead to his knees and swallowed the sob trying to rise in his throat. He shook his head. “I can’t stay in bed for the rest of my life, Bobby.”

“It’s not the rest of your life,” Bobby replied, sliding his hand to Sam’s back and rubbing a few times. “Two weeks—or four, or six, or eight—is not the rest of your life.”

“I want to be _better_ ,” Sam growled the words, low in his throat. “It’s been years, Bobby, and I’m so… so _tired_ of this…” He scooted a little and laid his head on Bobby’s thigh, sliding his hand to Bobby’s shin and grabbing on. Like a child trying to hide behind his father’s legs, Sam drew in close and breathed through the urge to cry.

“I know, boy.” Bobby sighed heavily, running his hand over Sam’s hair, more of a petting motion than the combing, raking thing Dean did. “I know.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut and stopped fighting, cries immediately racking his body. He couldn’t really complain, though; it hadn’t been all that long since he wanted to cry but couldn’t.

“We’ll get’cha there, Sam.”

Sam leaned in a little closer and focused on the sensation of Bobby petting his hair, doing all he could to shove everything else into the deepest, darkest corner of his mind.

“One way or another, we’ll get’cha there.”

* * *

“Cut the crap, Crowley. Just tell me: can you help Sam or not?”

Sam inhaled slowly, feeling the pull of consciousness and trying to stagger toward it.

“Sorry, Squirrel, but depression’s a different kind of monster.”

Sam was on the couch. He must have found his way there with Bobby’s help the night before, though he didn’t really remember it.

“You gave Bobby his legs back, but you can’t make Sam’s brain work? I mean, I get that you’re no philanthropist, but you have to know our chances are better with Sam. I’ll write a freakin’ dissertation on selfish reasons to do it, if that’s what you want, just…”

Bobby had his legs again? That was great. Somewhere, deep down, Sam was really happy about that. Confused, but… happy… and tired. Wait, what chances? What were they talking about? _My brain is all over the place… I don’t… I don’t understand._ He couldn’t think.

“I can only fix what I can identify, and there is something about depression that goes beyond the physical and mental. I can fix the chemicals, but no one knows what triggers the _change_ in chemicals in the first place. Whatever patch job I whip up could last for two minutes or two days or two weeks. It could last a lifetime or not at all. We just don’t know.”

That sounded dangerous… but also kind of worth it.

“Well—I mean, even if it’s just for a little while, at least he would feel better.”

That was Sam’s thought exactly. He just couldn’t make his mouth say so.

“And then he would plummet back to where he is now. Do you think his mind can handle a blow like that right now? Or tomorrow? Or next month? And we don’t know if the episode would come back worse than before or not.”

Oh. That was a good point. Sam hadn’t thought of that.

Mostly because he couldn’t think ahead more than a minute or two at a time. His foresight was shot, his decision-making ability had dissolved into nothing, his impulse control was in pieces on the floor… and he just wanted to feel _better._ He was tired of waiting.

“Sammy, wake up a sec.”

Sam inhaled sharply when he felt a hand on his arm, and he forced his eyes open, turning them toward Dean. “Hmm?”

“We found Death, and he’s the last Horseman, so…” Dean forced a weak smile, and there were so many secrets swimming in the pools of green… so many things he wasn’t saying. “We’re gonna go see if we can get his ring… and then we’ll be back.”

Sam looked at Dean in confusion. _Rings?_ He vaguely remembered War having a ring they cut off him, but… _What are they doing with rings?_ But he couldn’t make his mouth ask that.

Dean took a breath. “Right. You haven’t been…” He thumbed Sam’s arm and sighed. “If we take the rings of the Four Horsemen and put them together, we get the key to Lucifer’s Cage. That’s what we’ve been working on.”

Sam squinted for a moment, but then he started to nod. That made sense; he could follow that. But how were they going to get Lucifer _in_ the Cage?

No. Wait. That was more than a minute or two in the future. Forget that.

“So, we’re going to get the last one, and then we’ll be back,” Dean explained.

“If we don’t all die horrible deaths,” Crowley drawled, standing a few feet behind Dean.

“Shut up.” Dean glared over his shoulder and then gave Sam one, last smile. “You’ll be alone for a little while, but you’ll be fine. Cool?”

Sam nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “Cool…”

Something in Dean’s voice said it wasn’t cool, and Sam could sense that something was off, but he couldn’t muster up the brain power to figure it out. And even if he could figure it out, he wouldn’t have had the physical energy to do anything about it.

_I hate this. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this…_

But that didn’t make it go away. It didn’t make anything better.

* * *

Sam was only half-aware of what transpired over the next several days. He knew Dean was able to get Death’s ring, and he knew the key definitely worked. He didn’t remember them saying anything about going after Lucifer, but when Sam woke up in Bobby’s house alone, he put two and two together.

It felt good to figure something out, even if it was a pretty obvious something.

Miraculously, all three of his family members came back alive. From what Sam understood, Dean had used himself as bait to draw Michael to Lucifer’s location, and their plan had been to stay close enough to the fight to open the Cage in a way where Lucifer would fall or be thrown into it. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, depending on how one looked at it—Michael had tumbled down into the Cage _with_ Lucifer.

Sam felt bad about Adam. So did Dean.

But the world was safe, and they could breathe again.

Bobby could walk, which everyone was happy about. Castiel was almost entirely human, and it was clearly hitting him hard, but he was slowly regaining his powers. Like a battery, he was recharging, and it was slow-going, but it _was_ going.

It got warmer outside, the sun spent more time in the sky, and Sam got a little more fresh air. He liked to spend late mornings and early afternoons on the porch with a cup of tea. He started doing various puzzles, and some days he could only manage a word search, but he still _did_ them. He showered about once a week and changed his clothes every few days, and he honestly couldn’t remember when he had last brushed his teeth, but the fact that he even cared was an improvement.

His hypersomnia eased up until he was only sleeping for about fourteen hours at night with an hour-long nap in the late afternoon. He didn’t really _eat,_ per se, but he _snacked_ almost every day. Chips, crackers, cookies; an apple here, an orange there, a muffin then; half a bowl of soup when Bobby made it.

And, of course, daily milkshakes from Dean.

He was still underweight, and he didn’t like looking at himself in the mirror, but he was on the road to recovery. He reminded himself of that when he saw his hipbones jutting out, or when his stomach growled but he couldn’t find it in himself to eat. He drank a lot of water, juice, tea, soda… anything to take the edge off the hunger without making him chew and digest and _function._

It was a slow process, but when the world was one month in the clear, Sam actually found himself… hopeful… encouraged… _alive…_

…and, apparently, willing to take some risks.

* * *

“It started at Stanford.”

Sam stared down at the bowl in front of him, idly stirring his beef vegetable soup with his heart in his throat. _Crap._ He hadn’t really planned to open his mouth and spit out some random truth about his mental health, it just sort of happened. He had the thought, and he was in the early stages of debating the pros and cons when his brain said, ‘Screw it, I’m depressed; I’m not figuring this out,’ and out it came.

“What did?” Dean barely glanced up from his own dish, already on his second helping.

Sam wet his lips and stirred his soup a little more. “My depression.” He lifted his spoon a little but then dropped it, glancing across the table at Dean before looking down again. “I was about… halfway through my first semester, and…” He swallowed hard, hands shaking slightly. “I had no idea what was happening to me. Jess did, though. Her, uh… her sister had depression, so she… recognized the signs.”

Nobody said anything, and all action in the kitchen had stopped, Castiel sitting in silence on Sam’s right while Bobby lingered by the fridge.

Sam sucked in a breath and ducked his head a little more, pressing his lips together. _Crap._ He stared endlessly at his soup, starving and nauseous at the same time. _I hate this. Why did I do this?_ He exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself down.

“Why did you lie?” Dean spoke softly, and there was nothing accusatory in his voice, even though there was every right for it to be there.

Sam snorted softly. “Because I don’t like it.” _Because I’m weak._ “Because it’s embarrassing.” _Because I don’t want you to know how pathetic I am._

Dean stirred his own soup and shrugged as he took a bite, trying to keep up the façade of casual, dinnertime talk. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“No?” Sam laughed bitterly, tears springing up in his eyes before he blinked them away. “You were in Hell, Bobby lost the love of his life _twice_ and got paralyzed from the waist down _,_ Castiel has been killed and exiled and de-angeled, and you’re all getting by.” He pulled his head up and looked at Dean, incredulous and angry with himself, heat rising in his cheeks. “I have a drug withdrawal or get into a five-minute fight with my brother, and I can’t get out of bed for three weeks? It’s ridiculous— _I’m_ ridiculous.”

Dean was too surprised to speak right away, but Sam could clearly see the cogs turning in Dean’s head, composing a reply.

Sam looked back down at his food with a sigh. “I didn’t want any of you to know that… my first episode wasn’t because of some time-loop trauma or somebody dying.” Sam dragged his hands into his lap and scratched idly at the fabric of his sweatpants. “I was just… stressed out and homesick and struggling to figure out how to act like a normal person instead of a hunter.”

“Sam,” Castiel started quietly, blue eyes creasing in the corners. “You can’t choose how your body reacts to different circumstances. Dean and Bobby and myself not reacting the same way you do is just the lucky draw.”

“Luck of the draw,” Dean corrected.

“It’s just the luck of the draw,” Castiel amended with a solemn nod.

Bobby leaned back against the kitchen counter with a nod, folding his arms over his chest. “We won the genetic roulette, and not because of anything we did or you didn’t do.”

Sam lifted a hand to scratch his brow and then dropped it back down.

Bobby pursed his lips, drumming his fingers on his arm.

Castiel watched Sam, idly stirring the spoon in his soup.

Dean cleared his throat. “So. Jess recognized the signs. Did you get some help?”

Sam nodded once, raising his head just enough to look at Dean. “Yeah.” He couldn’t maintain eye contact without finding it hard to breathe. “Jess made me go to the doctor after—” after he took a bottle of painkillers and cut his wrists, “—uh, whatever you wanna call it when I can’t get out of bed for days.” He smiled weakly and stirred his soup again. “I was put on an antidepressant, and I got better. It only lasted for… I don’t know, three months.”

Castiel leaned forward slightly, looking at Sam with curious eyes. “Did your suicidal thoughts begin then, too?”

Sam pressed his lips together, holding his breath, and nodded.

Castiel nodded back, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. Castiel’s eyes told Sam to tell Dean and Bobby about the panic attacks and anxiety.

Sam’s eyes answered with a refusal and a threat.

“Thanks for telling us.” Dean smiled at Sam for a second and then went back to eating, uncharacteristically calm about the whole conversation. “It’s good to know. Getting a better idea of the big picture and all that.”

“Yeah…” Sam said slowly, sipping some broth only to find it lukewarm. “I… shouldn’t have lied in the first place.” He looked at Dean for a moment and then looked back down at his soup. “Uh, Bobby, could you reheat this?”

Bobby nodded and approached the table, reaching across. “Sure.”

Sam pulled out his spoon and handed the bowl over. “Thanks.” He set the spoon down and kept his attention on the table, heart still thudding against his ribcage.

_Well, that happened._

But no one was pressing him for more details, and no one was questioning the other things he had told them. Nobody was yelling, and there was no fighting, and nothing had exploded or burst into flames. What that meant, exactly, Sam didn’t know, but he knew it meant it was safe to try again.

Not too many times, because if he kept revealing the truth about himself, he would quickly reach the limit of their patience and understanding. But… he could tell the truth a _few_ more times… he just had to be careful about how he did it.

_Cool._

* * *

“We should talk about Heaven.”

Sam’s head snapped over to look at Dean, eyes wide and heart momentarily stopped. “Uh…” That wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all. Talking about Heaven would go nowhere good. “Yeah. Yeah, we should.” Because clearly Dean wanted to, and after everything Sam had done, Dean deserved to have whatever he wanted from Sam.

“So…” Dean tilted his bottle and took a swig, leaning back against the windshield of the Impala. “Did, uh… did Dad or I do something to make you… _not_ want any memories with us?”

Sam wet his lips and looked back up at the sky, folding his arms over his stomach. “I…” He sucked his lip between his teeth and chewed on it for a moment. “Will you promise not to interrupt or say anything?”

Dean thought about that for a moment, and then he nodded. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Sam inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Good. Because, uh, you’re gonna—you’re gonna want to correct me, because that’s your job, but it’s just—it’s frustrating, and—” He took another deep breath and pressed down on his stomach, calming himself. “I… didn’t… don’t… like myself.”

Sam waited to see if Dean would keep his promise.

Surprisingly, Dean did.

“Uh, at all.” Sam cleared his throat and kept his breathing steady. “I, uh… I was a burden. You and Dad were always taking care of me, trying to keep me from finding out about hunting, jumping through all these hoops for my sake…” He wet his lips. “I fought with Dad all the time, and… I’m pretty I was the only thing _you_ and Dad ever fought about. I was—I _am_ —a conflict magnet. I was annoying… and selfish… and I didn’t really… you know, _contribute_ anything to make up for that. You and Dad didn’t really need me. I wasn’t _that_ much better of a hunter.”

Sam took a deep breath and then decided to take another, swallowing his panic around the lump in his throat. He didn’t dare look at Dean, afraid of what he would see. “Then, uh, in recent years, we found out… that I’m the reason Mom was killed… and I’m the reason we were chased by demons. I’m—I’m the reason you and Dad couldn’t have a normal, _happy_ life.”

Sam brought his arms up a little higher, folding them over his chest in a protective gesture, fingers curling slightly to scrape and tug at the fabric of his shirt. “I, uh, I think about growing up… and I think about how I ruined everything.” He breathed through the pain in his chest, eyes locked on the sky. “I think about how I held you back, and I think about how much better off you would have been if I hadn’t been there. I mean, even in your Heaven, you know, there was this memory of you taking care of Mom after she fought with Dad, and I couldn’t help but think to myself that… there was already so much going on, and there were already so many issues without me there. You know, I just… I just added to the mess, and I made things worse, and…”

Sam swallowed hard, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t new information, it just hurt to say out loud, and he wanted to keep his emotions under control for Dean’s sake. Dean deserved that much.

Sam cleared his throat. “Even if Azazel had just killed me or taken me when I was a baby, it would have been better. Sure, there still would have been hunting and monsters, but you wouldn’t have been trained to take care of me, and you would take better care of yourself, and you could have spent more time with Dad. You know, you and him, driving across the country, spending all your time together. You could have—”

Sam screeched to a halt when Dean suddenly sat up with one hand pressed over his mouth. For a moment, Sam thought Dean was going to be sick, but Dean just stayed there, hunched over and holding his mouth shut, breathing carefully.

“Dean?”

Dean shuddered and inhaled slowly, lifting his eyes skyward.

Sam realized Dean was crying, and he immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered.

Dean shook his head, wiping his eyes and breathing slowly. He looked down at his lap, closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself.

Sam looked away, trying to offer privacy, and silently berated himself for going so far. _I should have lied._ He gripped his own sleeves and resisted the urge to curl up. _Selfish._

“So, when you… think about me and dad…” Dean spoke slowly, his voice coming out stiffly controlled and choppy, “…and you think about us being happy… it’s not with you?”

Sam slowly looked over at Dean with a cautious and apologetic look. “I’m not… I’m not good for you, Dean. I mean, you sold your soul for me. That’s not… a good thing.”

Dean pressed his lips together tightly, breathing in through his nose. “So, all those years ago, when we started hunting together, and Meg said I treated you like luggage…”

“You didn’t.” Sam looked at Dean with as much sincerity in his eyes at he could muster. “That’s how it felt, but that’s my fault, that’s… my brain and how it works. That’s not because of you. That’s—that’s my fault.”

Dean didn’t seem comforted by that at all. “That doesn’t mean—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I mean, from what I’m starting to learn about the way your brain works, you’re telling me that—that you spent all that time thinking I was, what, trying to passive-aggressively punish you for existing? You thought I was being unfair, and you insisted it was your fault because, what, you _deserved_ it?”

Sam flinched away, dropping his eyes to the hood of the Impala. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know how else to make right all his brain had screwed up.

“You’re—” Dean huffed and reached up to wipe at his face again, though Sam couldn’t see exactly where. “Can we—” Dean blinked a few times and shook himself. “Uh, can we try this again some other time?”

Sam looked back at him and nodded. “We don’t ever have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to.” Honestly, the rules of the game had changed so much, Sam wasn’t sure if the offer would make things worse or better.

“No, I…” Dean shook his head. “I want to hear this, I just… wasn’t ready.”

Sam smiled comfortingly, hoping that was the right thing to do. “That’s okay.” He paused, chewing on his lip. “You, uh… you wanna be alone?”

Dean shook his head again, harder, and took a huge gulp of beer before easing himself back onto the windshield. “Let’s just lay here for a while.”

Sam barely kept the smile from his face.

Dean didn’t want him to leave. Dean wanted him to _stay._

“That sounds good.” Sam looked back up at the sky.

They fell into silence, watching the sky darken shade by shade, not so much as looking in each other’s general direction. It started to get cold, but they didn’t make any moves to get up. They just moved a little closer, and Dean grabbed onto Sam’s hand.

They watched the sky some more.

* * *

Sam didn’t know exactly what to feel when he found the stash of _Supernatural_ books under Dean’s bed. That confusion only increased when he started leafing through the collection and found several sections highlighted with notes in the margins.

_Kept in touch with college friends; because they knew he was depressed?_

_Should have listened. Shouldn’t have shut him down. Probably thought I would yell at him for being depressed, too. Could be why he lies so much._

_Shouldn’t have left him, should’ve listened. Was he in a hurry to kill Azazel because he wanted to kill himself after? Or was he just trying to get the job done before his depression got worse and kept him in bed?_

_Shouldn’t have been so ready to die. Sam probably thought I didn’t care how he would feel when I was gone. Then I did it again, and I really left that time._

It took a little while, but Sam found the book Dean had yet to start reading. He grabbed it and shoved the rest back under the bed, rushing over to the door and looking both ways before darting across to his room and locking himself in. He grabbed a pen and sat down, taking a deep breath before he began to read.

It was the fourteenth book in the series, titled ‘Nightmare,’ and the second Sam started reading, he recognized the scenario. He wet his lips and put his pen to the page, underlining and drawing arrows to indicate what text went where.

_I know you were just trying to make me feel better, but I felt like you didn’t see or understand how upset I was._

_Don’t make it weird, but I like it when I’m upset and you touch me. Hand on my shoulder, pat on the back, or grabbing me by the arms like you did here. Maybe we could do that more?_

_Again, I know you were trying to help, but… I don’t always need you to have it together. Sometimes, I just need you to be not okay with me. Admitting my visions freaked you out wouldn’t have made me more scared, it would have made me feel less like I was going crazy. Less like I was the only one fighting._

Sam considered the paragraph for a moment, lips pursed against the top of his pen, and then he started writing directly under it.

_I never think less of you for being scared. I can stop teasing you about your fear of flying, if that helps. But you being scared doesn’t make you weak. Not in my eyes. It’s easy to keep going when you aren’t afraid… but when you’re scared out of your mind, and you still do what it takes to keep this family together? That’s what makes you extraordinary. That’s what makes you the bravest man I’ve ever known._

Sam smiled a little, satisfied, and moved on to the next page.

_You should use stupid comebacks like this more often—they always make me smile and help when I’m feeling down._

_When you were ready to kill Max… that kind of scared me. I know Lenore and her vampire nest weren’t in this book, but that incident scared me, too. I don’t always tell you things because… the world is so black and white to you. And I’m afraid someday I’ll tell you about one of my gray spots, and it’ll be too gray, and you won’t… want me anymore._

Sam rushed onto the next page as fast as he could, willing his heart to stop pounding, forcing himself not to go back and scribble it all out. He just kept reading, kept putting his pen to the pages.

_You said you would follow my lead, but you didn’t. You do that a lot. I wish you didn’t. I know after the whole demon blood thing, I don’t really deserve your trust, but… this is definitely one of the reasons I lie all the time. I know it’s not an excuse. I’m sorry._

_I know you can’t actually promise nothing bad will ever happen to me, but it makes me feel good when you say it. I could start saying it back, if you want. I always think it, but I figure you’ll tell me it’s not my job or tell me not to have a chick-flick moment…_

Sam spent about an hour and a half reading and adding notes, trying to encourage Dean as well as tell him the truth about different things he had done. Sam got to the end and scrawled another message on the back.

 

_Maybe we could read these together? I can tell you what helps and what doesn’t… and maybe you could tell me some things, too. I know you feel bad, and I don’t want you to, I just want us to be better. I want to stop hurting you, too. Let me know what you think. I love you._

_\- Sam._

 

Sam gave the message another read and then smiled to himself, closing the book and sneaking back toward Dean’s room. He got on the floor and put the book back exactly as it had been, wondering what Dean’s reaction might be when he found the first note several pages in.

_He might be mad. I went into his room and went through his things. I should have respected his privacy. Maybe he doesn’t want me to know about how he’s handling this emotionally._

Sam swallowed hard, feeling sick to his stomach, but he couldn’t exactly take it back, could he? Maybe that was good. Maybe it was best to cross a few lines and finally get it all out in the open so they stopped line-crossing in the future.

_I don’t know._

But Sam didn’t know much of anything. He just knew he wanted to feel better, and he knew he didn’t want to go back to the way it was before. That left him with the option of something new. New was terrifying, and new was dangerous, but new was the only option he had left.

It was the only option _they_ had left.

_Bring it on, I guess._

* * *

“Well, you finally decided not to be a stranger.” Sam let out a little chuckle and poured a second cup of tea. “For a while there, I thought maybe you forgot about us.”

Castiel glanced away, hands flexing at his sides, shoulders tensing as he tried to figure out what a human body was supposed to do with discomfort. “I apologize. That… was not my intention.”

Sam carried both cups over to the kitchen table and sat one across the table from him before sitting down with his own. “It’s alright, Cas. I was just teasing. It makes sense that once you got your strength back you would see how things are in Heaven.” He gestured to the chair, encouraging Castiel to sit. “How have you been?”

Castiel considered the steaming cup for a moment and then slowly eased himself into the chair across from Sam. He looked at the cup for another second or two, and then he brought the beverage to his lips, taking a sip, completely unbothered by the scalding temperature.

Sam winced anyway.

“Thank you for asking… but I’m fine.” Castiel slowly lowered the mug to the table. “It is me who should be asking you how you are.”

Sam pursed his lips slightly and cocked his head to the side, giving Castiel a slightly judgmental look. “You realize you’re trying to lie about emotions to the master of emotional lying, right?”

Castiel looked at Sam, affronted, and huffed out a reply, “I have successfully deceived both you and Dean before. Don’t presume to know whether or not I’m telling the truth.”

Sam arched a brow and sipped his own beverage, burning his tongue just a bit. “You lied about orders and facts and situations. Not about emotions. You can’t lie to me about emotions.”

Castiel narrowed his gaze, but the expression didn’t last long. “Why… _did_ you lie about your emotions?” He wet his lips, looking at his cup with intense focus. “And do you still lie about them?”

Sam was somewhat surprised by the questions, but he tried to answer as honestly as he could, because Castiel seemed to be looking for… something, though Sam wasn’t quite sure what.

“Uh, well…” Sam shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a lot of reasons. Um, gender is one. It’s just… not considered masculine to talk about your feelings. Like when Dean talks about chick-flick moments, you know?”

Castiel nodded. He had been around them long enough to be familiar with the phrase.

“Well, that makes it harder to be honest. Maybe you’re afraid people will laugh at you or use it against you… not take you seriously…” Sam trailed off and shrugged; there were a lot of ways that reason could go. “Um, another reason is… not wanting to be a burden. In my case, especially with our lifestyle, there was never really a… good time to be honest, I guess.” Sam took a drink and smacked his lips, thinking for a few moments before continuing. “I guess… if I had to pick the biggest one… it’s being afraid of the reaction. Like, what if you’re honest with someone you care about and they get mad at you? Or laugh at you? Or cut you off? Or…” He gestured vaguely with a hand, indicating there were many, many ways to finish that sentence.

Castiel thought about the answer he had been given, nodding to himself as he sipped his tea. He placed his cup back on the table and turned it until the handle was all the way to the right, and then he shifted it closer to himself.

Sam cleared his throat. “You, uh… you’re afraid one day you’re going to be honest, and what you share is going to be too much. You’ll scare someone away… disgust them… make them hate you… and you won’t be able to fix things or undo them. You’ll lose someone to something you could have kept to yourself if you hadn’t been so…” needy, selfish, weak, “…trusting.”

Castiel drummed his fingers on the table and then slid his hands into his lap with a quiet inhale. “Have you ever… scared someone away? Or… made them hate you?”

Sam took a breath and tilted his head with a shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve never been completely honest with anyone, and I’m sure there were some people I met in passing who… thought some pretty unsavory things about me.” He smiled a bit then. “But Dean doesn’t hate me yet. I don’t think. Or Bobby. Or you.” He stopped then, smile fading. “I mean, I—I didn’t mean to assume.”

Castiel frowned slightly. “It is always safe to assume I don’t hate you, Sam. I happen to be very fond of you.”

Sam blinked a few times and nodded, looking down at his tea. “R—right. Thanks.” He couldn’t deny the little ball of warmth that nestled into his chest at that. “Um…” He was completely distracted by the kind words, and he had to shake himself to get back to reality. “So, uh, anyway. To date, I don’t think I’ve ever made anyone hate me by being emotionally honest.” He shrugged. “Started a lot of fights, though. Got hurt a lot. Got confused.” He shrugged again. “I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out.”

Castiel nodded thoughtfully, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and understanding, all the while bearing something heavier and darker underneath. “So, do you think you will get better at being honest?” He made an odd face. “That is to say… do you think the lack of hateful reactions is an anomaly, or do you think it is wise to continue exposing yourself?”

Sam stopped with his cup halfway to his mouth, face twisting with concern. “Castiel… what’s wrong?”

Castiel stared down at his tea. “Nothing is really… wrong, per se… but things have gotten… difficult… in Heaven. Everyone is struggling to get used to things without Michael… without the old plan…” His mouth hung open for a moment, like he wanted to go on, but then he shook his head. “I am… concerned for my brothers and sisters. I suppose that’s weighing on my mind.”

 _Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you want to know about people hating people._ Sam just nodded understandingly and gave his tea another sip. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

Castiel looked away, a guilty expression flashing across his features. “Heaven is not your responsibility.”

“No, but it’s one of your responsibilities, and you’re family.” Sam tilted his head and tried to catch Castiel’s eyes. “We don’t mind. You know, even if there’s just something we can do to support you… help you get what you need, give you a place to get away from the stress… we’ll do what we can. We don’t have to interact with Heaven, but… you know, we’re here.” Sam flashed a weak but genuine smile.

Castiel looked at Sam for a long moment and then his gaze dropped down to his lap. “I… will keep that in mind. I’m… not very good with…” He inhaled slowly and then let it out, looking up with a small smile of his own. “Thank you, Sam.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sam was still worried about Castiel, but at least a door had been opened up. If Sam could keep picking away at Castiel’s resistance, pulling out a little at a time, then maybe he could figure out what was really bothering the angel.

“Well, I should probably return to Heaven. Thank you for—”

“Oh.” Sam put a disappointed look on his face.

Castiel blinked. “What is it?”

Sam, who felt just the tiniest bit guilty about lying, idly ran his finger around the rim of his cup. “No, it’s okay, I just…” He shrugged. “Dean’s on a hunt, and Bobby’s in town, and I wanted to take a walk, but… I’m kinda worried I’ll get halfway where I’m going and then be too tired to walk back.” He laughed softly. “Or worse yet, I’ll pass out in the middle of the woods.”

Castiel glanced out the window with a contemplative expression. “Oh… well… I can take a walk with you.”

“No, no, no.” Sam took a drink and waved it off. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t want to bother you. If you gotta go, you gotta go. I get it.”

Castiel frowned at the window for a moment, and then he looked back at Sam. “No, it’s alright. I’ll take a walk with you.” He looked down at his drink. “Perhaps we could… make another cup before we go and bring it with us?”

Sam smiled softly. “That sounds like a great idea.” Maybe he couldn't get Castiel to admit what was wrong, but he could at least force the angel to accept some quality time.

_Baby steps, Winchester._

For all of them.

* * *

“I’m not better,” Sam blurted suddenly, interrupting Dean’s attempt at small talk.

Dean froze mid-word and looked at Sam with confused, worried, almost hurt eyes. “No, I—I know you’re not.”

Sam swallowed nervously. “I’m okay enough to be out here, to be with you, but… I’m not okay enough to talk and listen and interact.” Sam wet his lips, scratching at his jeans. “I want to be with you, but I—I don’t want to _be_ with you. I know—I know that doesn’t make sense. I can leave, if that’s better, I just—”

“No, no, it’s cool.” Dean waved it off like it was no big deal. Like it was simple. “I’m glad you said something.” Like it was acceptable. Like he wasn’t angry or annoyed. “We need a, uh, a thing. An armband or bandana or something so I know when you’re good to talk and not.”

Sam’s mouth moved silently for a few moments, and then he wet his lips. “Uh… well…” His hand wandered to his jean pocket and idly massaged at the bundle of wires there. “I was thinking maybe… if I have red headphones in instead of black ones or none at all…”

“Works for me.” Dean shrugged. “Red means stop. Easy to remember, and easy to see.” He gave Sam a thumbs up. “We’ll let Bobby and Cas know, and you’ll be set.”

Sam blinked and nodded slightly, heart pounding wildly in his chest. He blinked a few more times and pulled out his red earbuds, switching them out with his black ones. He put them in, watching Dean mess around on his computer out of the corner of his eye. He laid down on the couch, curled up tight more for the comfort it brought than the size limitations of the furniture.

Dean just sat on his end of the couch, eyes on his screen, apparently relaxed and unbothered and unhurt by the stipulation Sam had asked for.

 _Nothing went wrong._ Sam let out a slow breath and eased into the cushions, his heart still pounding but steadily slowing down. _I didn’t hurt him. He didn’t laugh. Or think it was stupid. Or tell me to leave._ Sam gradually inhaled and exhaled again, a small smile pulling on the corner of his mouth.

_Nothing went wrong._

* * *

“So, are you gonna say it, or do I have to?”

Sam held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “He’s your angel.”

“He’s _our_ angel,” Dean snapped, both hands on the wheel and eyes focused almost _too_ intensely on the road in front of him. “But it’s not just me, right? You knew who I was talking about right away.”

Sam snorted and shook his head. “No, it’s definitely not just you.” He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I knew something was up with him… and now with him torturing that little kid just for information on Moses’ Staff—”

“Yeah, and letting Balthazar go after that,” Dean interjected.

Sam nodded. “And this civil war he keeps _vaguely_ referencing.” Sam made various hand gestures for the word ‘vaguely,’ and then he made a face. “I don’t like it, Dean.”

Dean exhaled slowly. “You and me both.” He shook his head, clearly unhappy, and then he glanced away from the road to look at Sam. “On the bright side, you just finished your first hunt since this latest episode began.”

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, leaning against the window. “This wasn’t a hunt. We interviewed, like, one guy, and Castiel pretty much did the rest.”

“Who cares?” Dean held one hand up in a questioning gesture to match his words. “You got dressed and ready, drove halfway across the country with me, interviewed someone—” he held a finger up, “—and we _both_ banished angels in that fight.” He put his hand back on the wheel and shook his head with a smile. “You hunted, Sammy. You’re getting better.”

Sam smiled a little himself, and with a little shrug and eyes on the floor, he conceded, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” His smiled faded. “But I’m so tired now. That’s not—”

“Again, who cares?” Dean reached out and gave Sam a slight shove on the arm. “Getting better doesn’t mean being at your best. It just means not as bad as you were before. Okay?” Dean smirked. “You and I both know you’re still the second-best hunter in the world. Maybe you aren’t at the top of your game right now, but that title’s still yours. You know? You earned it. You don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”

Sam bit his bottom lip and glanced over at Dean. “Even you?”

“Especially me.” Dean didn’t miss a beat. “I, of all people, know how awesome you are.”

Sam ducked his head with a little laugh, feeling a slight heat in his cheeks. He had always been so bad with compliments. “Yeah, well…”

“You don’t have to prove anything to yourself, either, Sammy.” Dean pursed his lips and shook his head, glancing at Sam before looking back at the road. “You’re already a survivor. You’ve made it this far. You did that.” He poked Sam’s shoulder. “You.” His hand fell to his lap, and he shrugged. “And if you forget, I’ll remind you.”

Sam felt his throat tighten up briefly, but his eyes stayed dry. He leaned into the corner between the seat and the window, sitting at a bit of an angle and settling down into the crease. “Thanks, Dean…”

“Sure.”

Sam folded his arms over his stomach, shifting his weight a few more times until he felt like he could sleep for a few hours and wake up without unbearable pain. “You know I love you, right? Like, more than anything?”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean flashed a dazzling grin and then looked at Sam, arching a brow. “You gonna make me say it, too?”

Sam laughed softly and shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me. I already know.”

Sam gently closed his eyes, letting out a sigh and easing into the cranny he had tucked himself into. It would be several hours before they were back in Sioux Falls, and Sam wasn’t exactly happy with his need to sleep for most of that, but he wasn’t as guilty and miserable about it as he could have been. Thanks to Dean.

“I love you, Sammy. More than anything.”

* * *

“Saw you cleaned up the garage a little. Thanks. I know you ain’t feeling up for it, but you did it anyway. It’s appreciated.”

Sam looked up from the book he had been reading, pleasantly surprised by the praise Bobby offered. “Oh, I…” He smiled, feeling a little heat go into his cheeks. “Thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby nodded his head with a smile of his own, touching the side of his hat as if to tip it. “You hungry at all?”

Sam looked down. “Uh, not really…” He was pretty much never hungry.

“That’s alright. I’ll heat up some leftovers, and if you feel like eating tomorrow, maybe I’ll cook something new then.” Bobby disappeared into the kitchen, humming to himself.

Sam looked back at his book and curled up a little more, smiling to himself.

“Love you, Bobby.”

“Love you, too. Idjit.”

Sam smiled wider.

* * *

Sam was happy to be hunting again. Well, he wasn’t exactly _happy_ , but he was encouraged by his slowly returning ability to get things done. It felt good to contribute, and while he felt guilty about how much his mental health had derailed his family, it also felt good to fix some of that. For example, getting Bobby’s soul back, which Sam was certain would have been handled sooner if Sam hadn’t been so pathetic.

Sick. If Sam hadn’t been so sick.

They took a break after Dean almost got turned into a vampire, and Sam confided in both Dean and Bobby that he would never forgive himself if someone got hurt because he wasn’t healthy enough. Dean said they would take bigger breaks in between and try to avoid riskier hunts.

Sam did not confide that same truth in Castiel, because Castiel was never around, which concerned all of them.

When Sam came across a case of suspicious suicides in Calumet City, Illinois, both Bobby and Dean vetoed the idea to take it on. Sam hung his head and admitted it probably wasn’t smart, but he also said he didn’t want Dean going alone. Bobby said he would assign someone else, and after some minor pushback from Sam, it was Dean who put his foot down.

 _“Sammy, that’s like a vampire trying to stay clean in a blood bank. Or an alcoholic trying to be sober in a bar. If you had to take this case, I know you could, but you_ don’t _have to. Don’t torture yourself trying to prove you can handle something you shouldn’t have to handle in the first place.”_

It wasn’t long after that that Castiel approached them with a case, asking them to look into it, which was weird for a number of reasons. First, Castiel rarely spoke with them, and when he gave them the case, he did only that and then disappeared. Second, the case had nothing to do with the civil war in Heaven; it looked like a normal werewolf case, and then later turned out to be skinwalkers. Sure, there was an Alpha Monster involved, but none of those things were helpful for Castiel.

_“Should we try to talk to him? I mean, I kind of did, but… maybe we need to push a little more.”_

In the end, they put the Castiel Situation™ on hold and went after aliens instead. Sam was pretty sure it was as close to lighthearted as a case had ever gone, and when all was said and done, Sam asked Dean if they could go out and celebrate. He actually _wasn’t_ exhausted for once. He felt kind of… alive.

Then they got kidnapped by Meg, which was less than fun, and it took every ounce of strength Sam had to keep playing the part of… well, himself. To not stare off into the middle distance, to not blink sluggishly, to make snappy comebacks and facial expressions and—

It was a nightmare.

And they didn’t even have the information Meg wanted.

_“Look, we got Bobby’s soul back from Crowley, like, I don’t know, two months ago? We haven’t seen him since then.”_

Meg insisted there was no way the Winchester’s hadn’t kept tabs on the King of Hell, and while they couldn’t convince her otherwise, they really had no problems helping her find and end him. So, they agreed to work together, called Castiel, and did what they did best.

And then they talked.

Or at least, they tried.

* * *

“Thanks, Cas. If it hadn’t been for you—”

“Crowley was right. It’s not going well for me upstairs.”

Sam glanced in Dean’s direction, exchanging the barest of glances before offering Castiel a small smile. “Well, you know, if there’s anything we can do to—”

“There isn’t.” Castiel said it so adamantly. He wanted them to believe it, but there was something off… something in his eyes that gave him away. “I wish circumstances were different. Much of the time, I’d rather be here.”

Dean pressed his lips together and put his hands on his hips, going for a casual dismissal. “Hey, you know, we miss you, but… it is what it is. We’re your friends. You know, we understand, we just want to help.”

“You can’t.” Castiel was entirely monotonous.

Sam didn’t like it, and his lips twitched into a faint frown. “Maybe we can’t help in Heaven, but… I told you before, Cas, we can help you. If you need to take a break or—”

“That’s unnecessary. I will handle things in Heaven, and I’ll return once they’re taken care of.” Castiel nodded sharply in Sam’s direction. “How have you been?”

Sam exchanged another look with Dean, and then Sam cautiously approached an answer, trying to push the conversation back toward Castiel. “I, uh, I’m doing a lot better. But Cas—”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Castiel looked between both of them, and then his eyes wandered to the building nearby. “I’ll take care of the monsters before I return to Heaven. Until we meet again.”

“Cas, wait—” Dean extended a hand to grab Castiel’s arm, but Castiel disappeared.

Sam turned in a circle, just to be sure, but Castiel was definitely gone.

“What the heck?” Dean ran both hands through his hair and let out a heavy sigh. “What is he not telling us?”

Sam furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “I’m more concerned about _why_ he isn’t telling us. What could he be worried about?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re already on the bad side of Heaven and Hell… he has to know we would help him do… whatever it is he’s doing.”

 _Unless he’s doing something bad._ Sam continued to frown as he slowly lowered himself to the ground. “Maybe we need to look into these Alpha Monsters.” He wrapped his arms around his knees and leaned forward, using himself as something to rest again. “I know it seems weird, but… Castiel gave us a job that wound up leading to the Alpha Skinwalker, and Crowley had a bunch of Alpha Monsters in there… maybe it’s more significant than we realized.”

“Sammy? You okay?”

Sam lifted his head. “Huh?” He immediately realized what Dean was asking about, at which point he internally smacked himself and answered. “Yeah. I just needed to sit down, and…” he shrugged, realizing how stupid his answer was, “…so I did.”

Dean pursed his lips and shrugged. “Sounds legit.” He plopped down in front of Sam and sat cross-legged on the ground, putting his hands on his knees. “So, we think these Alpha Monsters might help us figure out what’s up with Cas?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “It’s something. I don’t know what else to do. We can barely get him down here, and when we have a moment to talk, he cuts us off and vanishes. Maybe we need to force his hand a little. Alpha Monsters is about the only thing I can think of other than a ring of holy oil and interrogation.”

Dean made an unhappy face. “Yeah, well, here’s hoping it doesn’t come to that.”

Sam nodded, silent for a few moments, and then he smiled. “Thanks, Dean.”

“For what?” Dean asked, genuinely confused.

“For sitting on the ground with me. For making me feel less…” He almost said ‘freakish,’ but Dean had been cracking down on the negative self-talk—they all had—so that probably wasn’t a good idea. “I don’t know. It just makes me feel better. So thanks.”

“Sure thing, Sam.”

* * *

Sam peered out from his bundle of blankets when he heard the door creak. He saw Dean’s head poke in, and Sam tried to give Dean a smile, but he couldn’t quite manage.

“Hey,” Dean said softly, letting himself in and walking over to the bed. “It’s almost two in the afternoon. You okay?”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t get out of bed… and I don’t know why.” His throat closed up just saying the words. “It’s a bad day.” _And I don’t know why._ “I woke up… I don’t know, five hours ago… and I could feel it.” _But I don’t know why._

“Okay.” Dean nodded understandingly, hands on his hips. “Is this a stay-in-bed day, or is this a drag-me-out-of-bed-because-I-think-I-can-do-this-with-a-push day?”

Sam snorted out a weak laugh. “Stay-in-bed day.”

“Okay, well…” Dean shrugged his shoulders. “You’re entitled to bad days.”

Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head, eyes burning. “I hate this.”

“I know you do.” Dean knelt down by the bed, trying to get level with Sam’s eyes. “You’re gonna get better. You _are_ getting better. Okay? This isn’t forever.”

Sam screwed his eyes shut, an unexpected sob bursting between his lips. “I don’t care, Dean. I don’t want it at all. I know it’s not forever, but—but I don’t know if I can handle a week. I don’t know if I can take a day, or another _hour_ , and I don’t—”

“Woah, woah, hey, shh.” Dean rubbed Sam’s shoulders, periodically moving his hand to brush Sam’s hair back before returning. “Can you do it for five minutes?”

Sam swallowed hard but nodded weakly. “Yeah.” He nodded a little more. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Good. That’s all you have to do. Do this for five minutes, and when five minutes are up, we’ll figure out what you can handle next.” Dean kept rubbing Sam’s back, shifting his weight slightly to get more comfortable on the floor. “Do you want me to stay in bed with you?”

Sam shook his head. “No…” He wanted to be alone. Except he didn’t. And he didn’t know how to explain that, so he just left it at ‘no’ and waited to see what Dean would do.

“Okay.” Dean nodded a few times. “I’m gonna make myself a cup of coffee. You want any?”

Sam shook his head. It wouldn’t do any good.

“Okay.” Dean got to his feet and gave Sam one last pat on the back. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Five minutes, Sammy. You got this.”

Sam looked at the clock with bleary eyes. _Five minutes…_ He could do that. He could do almost anything for five minutes. _Five minutes. Just five more minutes. That’s, what, a big musical number? Half the cook time for spaghetti? I can survive that long._ He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. _Five minutes._

* * *

“Sammy… I need you to be honest with me.”

Sam tensed up on the couch, slowly lifting his eyes from his book without moving his head. He forced a little smile as he met Dean’s eyes, cold dread curling through his gut. “Okay?”

Dean walked over to the couch and sat down, resting his hands on his knees and taking a deep breath. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, and then he turned his head to meet Sam’s eyes. “Sam, I need you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth. And no matter what that is, it’s gonna be okay. But I need to know.”

Sam grew progressively more concerned, his brain running down fifty different tracks in a desperate scramble to figure out where Dean was going.

“Sammy…” Dean looked into Sam’s eyes for a long moment. “Have you ever tried to kill yourself?”

Sam exhaled sharply, the air punching out of his lungs like he had been hit in the gut. _What?_ That wasn’t right. Dean wasn’t supposed to ask questions like that. _Where did this come from?_ Sam had expected some kind of question about depression, but he didn’t expect Dean to keep digging when Sam had already given Dean the answer he wanted to hear. _What do I do?_

“Sam?” Dean watched Sam carefully, brow creasing.

“Sorry, you just surprised me.” Sam flashed a quick, fake smile. “No, I’ve never tried. I know I lied about when the suicidal thoughts started, but…” He trailed off with a shrug. “That’s different, you know?”

Dean nodded a few times and looked at the floor, bracing his arms on his thighs and tapping his fingertips together. He took a breath like he was going to say something, and then he stopped, pressing his lips together tightly.

“Dean?” Sam leaned a little closer and nudged Dean on the shoulder. “You’re not losing me. I’m… I’m getting better. You said the same thing yourself.” Sam forced another smile. “I think this new medication is working. I mean, it’s slow going, but… it’s going.”

Dean wet his lips and then bit down on them, bouncing his leg a few times, almost fidgeting in his seat. He reached up to rub at his eyes and then turned his head to look at the empty kitchen.

Sam’s heart started to beat a little faster. What was wrong? Why couldn’t he reassure Dean? Why wouldn’t Dean look at him? Had Sam done something wrong recently? Was it the Heaven discussion? Or the _Supernatural_ books? Or Sam’s recent setback? Maybe Dean had been hoping Sam would say yes to the suicide question. Maybe he was looking for a reason to cut Sam off. Maybe Sam and his problems—and Sam had a _lot_ of problems—were getting to be too much. Maybe Dean didn’t want him anymore. Maybe—

“I’m seeing a therapist.”

Sam blinked. He blinked again. He blinked a third time.

“Have been for about three months.” Dean cleared his throat, still looking at the kitchen. “Twice a week.” He reached up to scratch at his cheek, and after a few seconds passed, he huffed out a small laugh. “Come on, Sam, say something.”

Sam wet his lips and slowly closed the book in his lap, setting it aside. “I thought if I stayed quiet, maybe you would tell me more about it.” He turned so he was facing Dean, pulling his feet up on the couch and watching the back of Dean’s head. “What made you decide to see a therapist?”

Dean actually flinched at the phrase. “I…” He rubbed his forehead. “When you… said what you did in the panic room… I kept… I kept trying to see if from your side. And… I couldn’t.” He scratched his ear and then put his arm back on his thigh. “There was too much… stuff… that I never dealt with, and… I was mad… and I didn’t want to be, but it was like…”

Sam waited patiently as Dean made disjointed noises that weren’t quite words. He scratched at the fabric of his jeans, watching the way Dean shifted in place, heart aching at how hard it was for Dean to do something so healthy and normal and good for himself.

“It was like…” He moved his hands around slightly, struggling with himself. “All I could think about was… making sure you were wrong. Not… because…” His hands moved a little more, stopped, and then moved again, fingers curling and wrists twisting slightly, as if he were grabbing the words out of the air and rearranging them. “Not because… you have to be wrong, or I… _want_ you to be wrong, but because… if you’re… right… then…”

 _You have more ammunition to hate yourself with._ But Sam wasn’t going to say that out loud, even if he was completely sure he was right, because Dean needed the space to find his own words in his own timing.

“I don’t… want to fight… every time we try to talk about Dad or Heaven or the past or…” Dean looked at the floor for a second, but he was quick to look at the kitchen again. “And, uh, and ignoring it wasn’t working… and trying to sort some of this out… I think I’m starting to get that… that you aren’t… mad at me… you just want me to understand.” He looked at Sam suddenly, eyes wide and slightly misted. “Right? You’re—you’re not mad?”

Sam shook his head emphatically. “No. No, you got it exactly right. I’m not mad about the past…” except maybe a few things he was still struggling to let go of, but that was on him, “…and we can’t fix what either of us did… but if we can understand why we did it, and if we can find out what it is we keep doing to hurt _each other_ …” because Sam knew he wasn’t blameless, “…then maybe we can have a better future.”

Dean nodded a few times and immediately looked back at the kitchen. “Right. Exactly.” He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, and then cleared his throat again. “That’s what I want. And I…” He shifted in place and tapped his fingertips together again. “And I d… I de…” He rocked back and forth slightly, like he wanted to bolt out of the seat, and took a deep breath. “I deserve to—to feel better about some stuff.” He cleared his throat. “I deserve to… to be able to be a good brother without making myself miserable.”

Sam closed his eyes, swallowing the sensation of pain. _Oh, Dean... What kind of mess_ are _we?_ But Sam didn’t want to make Dean feel any more embarrassed or exposed than he already did, so Sam quickly opened his eyes, keeping his expression neutral and his pressing cautious.

“Dean… I think this is great. It’s more than great, it’s…” Sam shook his head, at a loss for words, a soft smile pulling on his mouth. “Seriously. I mean, I know this isn’t your thing, but Dean…”

Dean ducked his head down slightly, still staring into the kitchen. He didn’t say anything, and he still wouldn’t—or maybe couldn’t—look at Sam.

Sam reached out and tapped Dean on the arm, resting his hand on the space between them afterward. “Dean… if the only thing that could make you decide to see a therapist… was my depression and… _issues…_ then I’m glad I am where I am.”

Dean looked at the floor, shaking his head with a soft sigh. “Don’t say that, Sam.”

“No, I mean it.” Sam swallowed, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could. “If this was the only way, I would do it again in a heartbeat. You seeing a therapist and working through some of the absolute crap you’ve been through… feeling better about yourself… it’s worth it.” Sam let out an incredulous, little huff. “It’s a good thing, Dean. It’s a really good thing.”

Dean clenched his jaw and glared at the floor. “It doesn’t feel like a good thing.” He shook his head. “It feels like losing.”

“I know.” Sam inhaled slowly. “Dean… our brains lie to us. Mine tells me that… everyone hates me and I’m better off dead… and yours tells you that it’s not okay to take care of yourself.” He lifted his hand from the cushion and put it on Dean’s arm, giving it a little squeeze. “We’re screwed up, but we’re screwed up together.”

Dean snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, what else is new?” He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. “Why do I feel like it was easier to stop Satan than it is to deal with…” He gestured to both of their heads in lieu of words.

Sam smiled softly. “I don’t know.”

Dean nodded a few times and opened his eyes, staring at the floor. He turned his head toward Sam just slightly, his eyes lingering down by Sam’s knees. “Have you tried to kill yourself, Sam?”

Sam let his hand slide down Dean’s arm to the couch cushions, hazel eyes dropping to his lap. “Yes,” he whispered. Dean deserved an honest answer.

Dean nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Um… I said that back at Stanford… I had an episode where I couldn’t get out of bed… and that was when Jess took me to the doctor.” Sam pressed his lips together, scratching at his own hands. “What actually happened was… Jess found me passed out in the bathtub. I…” Sam swallowed hard— _come on, he told you he’s seeing a therapist, he’s trying, you can trust him, he won’t hurt you—_ and put his hands in his lap to hide the shaking. “I had taken a bottle of ibuprofen and cut my wrists.”

Dean inhaled sharply, but he didn’t say anything, forcing a stiff nod instead.

“I… made some other attempts… I don’t really want to talk about them now.” He didn’t know if he would ever want to talk about them with Dean. “But I never… used very reliable methods. I would always… make the attempt and then chicken out.” He winced at his own words. Maybe that wasn’t the best term.

Dean nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful but also eerily blank.

Sam wet his lips and took a breath.

“Do you—”

“I’m really—”

They both stopped, and then Dean waved a hand.

Sam took another breath. “I’m really sorry, Dean.”

Dean’s brow creased slightly, and he looked at Sam’s face for the first time since he decided to mention therapy. “Why are you sorry?”

Sam shrugged, trying to look at Dean but finding he couldn’t quite manage it. “I tried to leave. I tried to bail. I knew it was going to hurt you, but I didn’t… I didn’t care. I just wanted…” He swallowed hard, and it was his turn to struggle with eye contact. “Don’t—” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Don’t be ashamed of me. Please.”

“Sam.” Dean sighed and wrapped an arm around the back of Sam’s neck, pulling until Sam drooped against him. “Are you ashamed of yourself?”

Sam nodded against Dean’s shoulder, not quite able to cry but still feeling the tightening burn in his throat.

“I’m not ashamed of you, Sammy.” Dean sighed, reaching up to run a hand through Sam’s hair. “It scares me. I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to lose you to it. But it doesn’t make me ashamed of you.”

Sam took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, breathing in Dean’s scent and trying to recreate the nostalgia of simpler times. “We’re… we’re gonna be okay, right? We’ll both get help, and we’ll figure things out. And… we’re gonna mess up, and I’m gonna let you down, but it’s gonna be okay, right?”

“Hey,” Dean chided. “I’m gonna let you down, too. We’re both gonna make mistakes. We’re good at that.” He kissed Sam’s temple and let out a soft sigh. “But it’s gonna be okay, Sammy.”

Sam swallowed hard and nodded. “Don’t…” He dropped his head on Dean’s shoulder. “Don’t tell Bobby or Cas that I tried. Please?”

“Only if you don’t tell them about the therapist,” was Dean’s rumbled reply.

Sam shook his head. “I won’t say anything.” He was still and silent for a moment, and then he cleared his throat. “Is the therapist good?”

Dean leaned back into the couch and kept his arm around Sam. “Heck if I know.” He rested his head on the back of the couch. “I think he is. Not that I’m the best judge, but… I feel like I understand you better. And… you know, I’m understanding some other… stuff.”

Sam wet his lips and nodded. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I will.” Dean sighed. “But not today.”

“You’re entitled to that.”

Dean tensed up briefly.

“You are,” Sam insisted.

Dean relaxed, but didn’t say anything.

That was fine with Sam. They shared a lot in their silent moments together, and the more they were learning about the way each other’s brains worked, the less uncertain and anxiety-ridden those silences were. Less wondering what was wrong and more knowing everything was okay. Less waiting for the boot to drop and more knowing everything would be okay if and when it did.

“Love you, Dean.”

“Love you, Sammy.”

* * *

Dragons happened about a week after that. _Dragons._

They all took a couple days to process that, and then it was back to the daily grind. They picked up a case that got Baby wounded, but fixing her gave Dean something to do for a week or two; which subsequently meant Sam had an excuse to take it easy for a week or two.

Not that he couldn’t just tell Dean he needed a break, but… Sam was still learning how to do the whole ‘honesty’ thing. He was still trying to get his tongue to actually form the words, torturing himself every time with the question of whether or not the anxiety of telling the truth was worth the benefits.

They wound up on a _Supernatural_ set about a week after that, and after what felt like the world’s most realistic LSD trip, Castiel promised to tell them more about the civil war in Heaven. They weren’t convinced, but Sam was honestly too overwhelmed by the thought of trying to sort Castiel out to press, so he decided to have some fun instead.

Sam grabbed a tablet and a pen and tried to think back through the cases of their past and write down the funniest ones. He got Bobby and Dean to help him, and the trio stayed up until two in the morning drinking Coke and laughing until they cried over odd and unforgettable witnesses, monsters, situations, fellow hunters—anything.

They had fun. Sam had fun. He was exhausted the next day, and it was hard to fall back down after spending several hours so high, but he survived.

Then they hit a rough patch. Dean was possessed by the Khan Worm and shot a civilian. Bobby was possessed by the same thing and killed Rufus. They were made aware of the Eve, Mother of Monsters. Everything about the case was jarring—emotionally, physically, and mentally—and Sam didn’t stay in bed, but he didn’t say more than ten words a day for a week, either. He just listened to music and wandered around the scrapyard and stared at the wall. Sometimes he managed to do a puzzle or two.

Bobby needed space for longer than a week, and Sam and Dean both understood. They started looking into some strange deaths, hoping for something resembling normalcy and ending up with more angels—namely Balthazar—the Fates, and another crushing example of Bobby’s inability to get a happy ending.

They took another week off.

They got some leads on how they might be able to deal with Eve, and with Castiel’s help, they traveled back to the Wild, Wild West. They got the ashes of a Phoenix, and Castiel was gone in a matter of minutes. Bobby said Castiel touched his soul while they were gone; apparently Castiel was more run-down and de-powered than he was letting them think. Not that he had to do much to keep them from knowing how he was; he was never around.

They all called Castiel multiple times over the next few days for multiple things. He didn’t respond to any of them. So, Sam started making a habit of praying in more of a text message format.

_Hey, Cas… I don’t know if you have your ears on, but I wanted you to know we’re all thinking about you. Hope you’re having a good day._

_Hey, Cas! Did you cause that crazy thunderstorm last night? Father Jim used to tell us thunder was angels bowling. You weren’t bowling without us, were you? Have you ever been bowling? We’re totally taking you bowling._

_Hey, Cas, if you want a cup of tea, I’m making some right now. You don’t have to stay if you’re busy, you know, you could just grab it and go. I’ll put it in a to-go cup._

Occasionally, if Sam was very lucky, Castiel would take him up on the tea. But the conversations were sharp and short, and Sam always walked away feeling worse than he had when he reached out.

Then, as if he hadn’t been missing for a good two weeks, Castiel showed up again with an old, familiar face in tow. Lenore, a non-violent vampire from days gone by, gave them what information on Eve she could, and then Castiel smote her with less emotion than a statue.

Sam and Dean and Bobby exchanged multiple concerned looks throughout the entire ordeal.

Then they got a break. They went to Grants Pass, Oregon, and Castiel was cut off from his powers. Dean said that made him a baby in a trench coat. Bobby said it was a bad sign.

Sam said it made Castiel incapable of disappearing while they tried to talk to him and was a perfect opportunity to confront him.

* * *

Sam took a deep breath. “Castiel, we need to talk.”

Castiel looked at them, his visual scan of the town grinding to a halt. “What is it? Do you see something?” He started looking around again, that time searching for whatever it was he thought Sam saw.

“We, uh…” Sam glanced at Dean and Bobby. “We don’t want to gang up on you, but… we’ve all noticed you aren’t quite yourself.”

“I’m myself,” Castiel replied immediately, looking from Sam to Dean to Bobby and then back to Sam. “We should focus on finding Eve.”

“We are,” Bobby said, holding out a hand in a placating gesture. “We’re just focused on figuring out what’s up with you, too.”

“There is nothing ‘up’ with me.” Castiel looked at Bobby, and then he put his eyes on Dean, no doubt knowing he had the most pull there. “We can talk about this later if you’re that concerned.”

Dean spread his arms. “When? You don’t answer our calls, and when we finally manage to get you down here, you say five words and disappear again.”

Castiel exhaled harshly, almost _huffing_ at them, and his hands flexed at his sides. “Because I have already given you an answer, and you won’t accept it.” He glared. “Things are difficult in Heaven, but they are manageable. I am under a great amount of pressure, but I am fine.”

“Cas, you’re not fine,” Dean tried, his voice almost pleading. “You’re not—”

“You said I could come to you for help.” Castiel looked at them with accusation in his eyes. “Eve and the potential opening of Purgatory brings a new dimension to this war; one I don’t think I can handle.” Castiel pressed his lips together, brows canting upward slightly. “If you don’t want to help, I understand. It’s not your responsibility. But don’t lie to me. Now, more than ever, I need to know who I can trust.”

Dean heaved a sigh and pressed both palms to his eyes.

Bobby lifted his hat and scratched his head before putting it back.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and sighed softly.

Dean gestured to the bar. “Let’s go see if we can find something on Eve.”

Sam wanted to object, but in the end, he let out a sigh and went along with it. Maybe Dean should have tried a little harder—or let Sam and Bobby try a little harder—but it looked like Castiel wasn’t going to hear it no matter who it came from.

_He’s a several-millennia-old angel. If he needs help, he knows how to ask._

Sam worried his lip as he followed his family into the bar.

_Right?_

It wasn't long after that Sam got his answer.

* * *

“Dean.” Sam cautiously placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder before sinking down to sit beside him on the front porch steps. “I have something to tell you.”

Dean snorted and threw back two fingers of whiskey before reaching for the bottle. “Sam, now is really not the best time.” He put another two fingers in the glass and lifted it up as if to toast. “In case you can’t tell.”

Sam wet his lips and swallowed, nodding slowly. He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky, still wondering whether he was doing the right thing or just being selfish. He didn’t _think_ he was trying to use the situation as an excuse to vent, but it was often hard to tell, especially when his brain always insisted he was doing it for despicable reasons.

“I… I think it’ll help.” Sam wet his lips. _Right after Castiel came to Bobby’s just to argue with him some more?_ Sam swallowed. “I… think.”

Dean looked over at Sam for a moment, eyes tired and face long, but he eventually nodded. “Go for it.”

“Uh, well, I… mental disorders usually come… with other mental disorders. It’s called co-morbidity.” Sam took a breath, shifting in place and tilting his head back to look up at the night sky. “So, um, with my depression, I have anxiety.” He choked on the word, which only made him more embarrassed, and he was quick to clear his throat and press on. “So, I—I was thinking about Castiel, and…” Sam sucked down another breath and looked at Dean. “You haven’t interrupted yet. So, I’m—I’m not making it worse?”

Dean didn’t say anything, and his eyes were less than alert, but he shook his head.

“Okay.” Sam let the air out and looked back at the stars. “I know Cas betrayed us… and lied… and he is so far off the reservation we can’t see him anymore, but… what if he’s scared?”

Dean frowned, but that had definitely gotten his attention. “What?”

Sam rubbed his hands on his thighs, scratching at the denim. He was amazed Dean let him get this far; though, he supposed, with how much Dean had been changing, maybe he shouldn’t have been.

“Well… I was thinking about myself. You know, I… I’ve known about my depression and anxiety for a long time. And it was…” Sam moved his hands, trying to grab the words he wanted out of the air. “I lied about a lot. I lied about big things. And I know it’s different, because he’s trying to open a portal to Monster Hell, but…” He dropped his hands back to his knees and heaved a sigh. “I lied because I was ashamed of what I had done and afraid of how you would react… and every time I did something, it got harder. You know, my… my first attempt was one thing, and it was like… I would argue with myself about telling someone or not… but then I tried again, and it was like, ‘maybe they could have forgiven one time, but _two?’_ But I… I knew lying wasn’t going to go anywhere good, and over time I would start to change my mind, but then I tried again, and, ‘maybe they could forgive two times, but _three?’_ And it was, ‘maybe they’ll understand two weeks in bed, but two months?’ and it was, ‘maybe they can tolerate depression, but _anxiety_ , too?’ and it’s just…” Sam reached up and ran his hands through his hair, interlocking his fingers behind his neck and sighing. “It’s just this constant… it’s like… it’s—”

“It’s like you’re in a dark room, blindfolded, and you have no idea how big the room is, but you know all the walls are covered in razor-sharp spikes and the exit is small.” Dean threw back the whiskey and set his glass aside with a heavy thud, looking out at the scrapyard with thoughtful eyes. “So, every time you take a step, your heart feels like it’s coming out of your chest because what if this is the step that gets you skewered? And maybe you make yourself take a step, but then what if the _next_ step is the one that gets you skewered? And sure, the best thing would be to find the exit and get out, but what are the chances of getting out of that room alive, let alone unhurt?”

Sam nodded dumbly, wide eyes trained on Dean’s face.

Dean just kept looking out at the scrapyard, a faint smirk pulling on the corner of his mouth. “Ryan said that was why you kept things from me.”

_Ryan? Oh._

Ryan must have been Dean’s therapist.

That was so weird to even think.

“He said it’s not my job to get you out of the room… it’s just my job to take the blindfold off so you can find your own way out.” Dean cleared his throat. “You know, boundaries and assurances and… stuff… so it’s easier to see the spikes.”

It took a moment for Sam to find his voice. “I’ve… never heard it put that way before,” he said softly. “That’s really accurate.” And it came from _Dean_ , and it was so surreal in the best of ways, because Sam never in a million years would have thought _Dean_ would help Sam find the words to explain _anxiety._

“So, you think Cas is in the Spiky Room of Death?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders, a faint smile pulling on his lips. “I think I would be if I spent thousands of years following strict orders and then one day rebelled and had no new guidelines to replace the ones I lost. It’s… kinda like setting a kid loose in a candy store and not telling him too much sugar is going to cause a stomachache. He’s just… making this up as he goes, doing what feels right in the moment. I mean, you heard what he said. ‘It sounds so simple when you put it that way.’ Because it is simple. He’s just… too confused and overwhelmed to think that far ahead. It makes him feel good, and it makes him feel powerful, and that feeds his ego, and being egotistical is a lot more fun than being afraid.” Sam looked down at his feet, shifting his boots in the gravel. “And after spending his entire life with a family unit that was entirely dependent on obedience and compliance…” He shook his head slightly. “Castiel’s brothers and sisters would kill him for rebelling against Heaven, and he’s known them for how long? He’s only known us for a couple years, and we never really sat him down and told him what being human _is._ We just told him what it wasn’t, and that’s not the same. Dean, I… I think he’s scared to death. I really do.”

Dean thought about that for a moment, lips pursing, and then he began to nod. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Sam asked, watching a veil of determination cross Dean’s features.

Dean looked at Sam and nodded. “Let’s bring him home, Sammy. Whether he likes it or not.”

Sam took a second to process the reply, and then he smiled. “Yeah.” He got to his feet and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Let’s do it.”

Dean nodded and grabbed the whiskey and his empty glass, standing up and turning toward the door. He reached out to grab the handle, but Sam snagged his arm, waiting until they made eye contact to speak.

“Dean… are _you_ okay?”

Dean looked at Sam for a long moment, his gaze wandering down to the hand on his arm. “No.” He snorted out a bitter laugh. “Not at all.”

Sam wet his lips and nodded, not letting go. “What can I do to help?”

Dean shook his head and tried to wave it off, pushing against Sam’s arm in the process. “You got your own stuff to worry about, man.” He made a not-as-subtle-as-he-thought attempt to push Sam’s hand off.

Sam wouldn’t let go. “How can I help, Dean?”

Dean looked at Sam for a long moment and then heaved a sigh, turning his head to look at the empty porch. “I, uh… I don’t know. I just know I don’t want to do this alone. And that everything sucks right now.” He shrugged his shoulders.

Sam still held on, waiting patiently for Dean to navigate his own mind.

“I mean, you kind of already did help. I think… I’ll be able to take it a lot better if Cas lied because he was confused or scared.” Dean cleared his throat then, looking toward their feet before looking back into the distance. “Because what I’ve been thinking is that… he planned this from the start.”

Sam frowned, brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it.” Dean looked at Sam then, and there was such a profound ache in his eyes that Sam knew whatever was about to come out of Dean’s mouth, Dean had been believing it with his whole heart. “Cas switched sides at the last minute, and his change of heart didn’t stop the Apocalypse from starting, did it? Then Cas sticks with us, ‘cause we’re his best shot at beating Lucifer and Michael, and we do just that.” Dean spread his arms wide, Sam’s arm moving with him, the bottle and glass in his hand clinking together. “Now, all he has to do is get the power from Purgatory, overthrow the last archangel up there, and he’s in charge of everything.”

Sam almost spoke, but he saw the expression on Dean’s face change from anger and hurt to hurt and something resembling hope. Sam kept his mouth shut and waited.

“It just…” Dean shook his head and sighed, looking away again. “It can’t be that. After everything we did together, stopping the Apocalypse, him hovering over you like a freakin’ mother hen when you couldn’t get out of bed, him being almost human and having actual _feelings_ —that can’t be fake. It can’t be.” He shook his head again. “I don’t know how to handle it if it is. If he’s been playing us this whole time…” He let out a sigh and looked at the ground, screwing his eyes shut.

“Dean,” Sam started softly, squeezing the arm he had never once let go of. “I really don’t think it’s that. I… I really, truly don’t. I mean, Raphael killed Castiel way back when he first rebelled—if it was all part of some elaborate plan, it was a pretty crappy plan, because if it weren’t for his mysterious resurrection, he wouldn’t have made it two feet out of the gate.”

Dean exhaled sharply and shook his head. “What if he faked it somehow?”

“I don’t think Raphael would have helped him with that, Dean.” Sam slowly shook his head. “And we’ve seen firsthand that Raphael doesn’t like Castiel. That wasn’t just hearsay.”

“ _If_ that was Raphael, and not somebody in cahoots with Cas!”

Sam wet his lips and swallowed, squeezing Dean’s arm again. “I know… it’s really hard to trust anything having to do with Cas right now… but no matter what anybody planned, we’re going after him because _we_ care, and if it turns out he doesn’t, then…” Sam struggled for a moment. “Then we say ‘screw you, and thanks for the good times,’ and we appreciate what we had and then…” He struggled again. “I don’t know, Dean. And I know everything I’m saying sounds so much easier than it is, but… I… I don’t know. I’m trying.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment, but then he turned to Sam with a faint grin and a little more light in his eyes than before. “Yeah, well… you’re doing a bad job.” He reached out to poke Sam with the hand of the arm Sam was still holding, and Sam finally let go. “But you’re trying… and it’s not like I really know what I need, so… let’s call it a win and go get our boy.”

Sam smiled. “I can get with that.”

Dean smiled back.

* * *

Sam lost count of the number of demons they burned through over the next two weeks. Question, torture, kill. Question, torture, kill. Sam felt like a serial killer. Forget BTK, they were QTK, and they wouldn’t stop until they had Crowley or Castiel or both in their sights.

Dean expressed a bittersweet gratitude that he had never pursued Lisa. It hadn’t really been a conscious decision, but between Sam’s depression and the Apocalypse… any notion of romance got swept under the rug.

Apparently, it had all been for the best, because they both shuddered when Dean pointed out the benefit to his bachelorhood.

_“Can you imagine what Crowley would do to Lisa and Ben just to get to me?”_

Sam and Dean contacted Balthazar, and he was flippant at first, but he returned hours later and agreed to be their double agent. Whatever Castiel had said had alerted even his long-time friend to the fact that he wasn’t okay.

If that wasn’t proof, Sam didn’t know what was.

Bobby had been tracking a human lead during their more spiritual pursuits—apparently, H.P. Lovecraft had some interesting hobbies—and it took some time, but he eventually interrupted their torture trade-offs with a break in the Castiel Situation™.

Balthazar ‘tricked out,’ as Dean put it, the panic room. He covered it in sigils, some of which were visible and some of which weren’t, all of which were connected to a larger sigil on the door to the room. It was designed specifically for Castiel, capable of keeping him out or in, hardwired to burn him if he tried to touch the sigils or remove them. All they had to do was get Castiel inside and slam the door; once the door was shut, all the lines would be connected, and the warding would activate. If they could get him into the room before he did anything stupid, they actually stood a chance of saving him.

Castiel beat them to the punch.

* * *

“I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

Sam could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his mind flooded with doubts about Castiel’s mental state.

“Rest assured, when this is all over, I will save Sam, but only if you stand down.”

Maybe it wasn’t fear. Maybe Castiel was really just that cold and detached. Maybe Castiel had never cared at all.

“Save Sam from what?”

Castiel disappeared.

Sam whirled on the spot and grabbed Castiel’s wrist with both hands just before the fingers made contact. “Give them back,” he grunted, fighting against the angelic strength as he played the only card he could think of.

Castiel pushed forward, and there was no way Sam could compete, so Sam backed up and kept holding the wrist.

“Right now.” Sam turned as he backed up, trying to get himself backed up against a wall so Dean and Bobby could get Castiel from behind. “Before you do whatever it is you’re going to do, give them back.”

“Give _what_ back?” Castiel growled angrily, still pushing, forcing Sam down the alleyway while Dean and Bobby tried to hold him back.

“All those cuts on my hands.” Sam looked into Castiel’s eyes, and he could still see a flicker of his friend there, but it was growing fainter with every passing second.

Castiel’s head tilted slightly. He was clearly confused, but that didn’t stop him from pressing Sam up against the wall.

Sam gripped Castiel’s wrist a little tighter, and he prayed the memory would mean as much to Castiel as it did to Sam. “From the bathroom mirror. I had a panic attack, and the only way to feel better was to punch broken glass until my knuckles were skinless, and I let you near me.” Sam almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw hesitance on Castiel’s otherwise cold features. “You’re the _only_ person I ever let near me during a panic attack.”

Castiel came to a complete stop, emotions warring on his face.

“Even Jess…” Sam wet his lips. “I loved her with all my heart. I was gonna marry her. But I would lock myself in the bathroom until it was over.” Sam squeezed Castiel’s wrist, searching the torn, blue eyes for some sign he was getting through. “I let you help me.”

Castiel glanced away, lowering his arm slightly. “Sam…”

“I was at my—my weakest, most vulnerable, _terrified_ point,” Sam bit his lip and blinked back tears, realizing he was holding his breath between words, “and I let you help me.” He took a steady breath. “You healed my hands, and you told me it was okay, so whatever you’re gonna do now…” Sam shook his head. “Give me back the cuts on my hands first. I want them back.”

Castiel looked conflicted, but he hadn’t dropped his arm all the way, and he wasn’t backing up. He clenched his jaw, looked to the side, and then met Sam’s eyes with passion that rivaled the hurricane Sam was feeling inside.

“I _need_ to do this, and I can’t make you understand. You—”

Sam shook his head rapidly. “You _don’t_ need to do this, Cas. You don’t. When we first confronted you, you admitted that you know this is wrong.”

“Right or wrong, I don’t have a choice. If I don’t do this, Raphael will—”

“Be stopped,” Sam said, trying to find a balance between gentleness and passion. “We’ll find a way, Cas. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“I’m so _close,_ Sam.” Castiel narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t seem necessarily angry. He just seemed confused and distressed and… something else Sam couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Just let me do this, and it will be all over, and things can go back to normal.”

“Things can go back to normal _now_ , Cas!” Sam tensed up when he felt Castiel pushing forward again. “Listen—”

Castiel pushed harder, trying to reach Sam’s head. “I am sorry none of you understand why I have to do this, but—”

“I know exactly why you have to do this!” Sam ducked to the side, and with Dean hanging on Castiel’s arm, Sam managed to avoid the attack. “Because you think the only way you can be forgiven is if you succeed.”

Castiel stopped at that, a cautious confusion going into his eyes.

“You think the only way we’ll take you back is if you fix all our problems and make everyone happy in the end. Because if you let us talk you out of doing this now, then all you’ve managed to do is disappoint us—”

Castiel snarled at him. “Enough.” He shrugged Dean off and glared angrily when Dean just grabbed on again. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll just detain you until I’ve taken care of things, and none of you will be harmed.”

“Cas, please, listen to me,” Sam tried. “Just for a second, okay? I know you’re scared—”

“I don’t want Raphael to win, but I’m hardly _scared._ ” Castiel glared at Sam. “This plan is going to work, and when it does, everything will be right in Heaven again.”

Sam almost rebutted against the infallibility of the plan, but then he reminded himself to stay on mission. “Cas, think back. Think back to when this all started.” He paused briefly, watching shades of blue turn thoughtful behind squinted eyelids. “Why didn’t you just ask for help?”

“I told you, it wasn’t—and _isn’t_ —your responsibility.”

“So?” Sam shot back. He pulled down on Castiel’s wrist a little and managed to get the hand more toward his chest than his face. “The Apocalypse wasn’t Bobby’s responsibility, and he still helped us. Because family helps family, Cas, so why didn’t you ask your family for help?”

Castiel flinched almost imperceptibly at the phrase ‘your family,’ but he remained unmoved. “You couldn’t have done anything, Sam. None of you could have.”

Sam shook his head. “No, that’s not why. You didn’t ask because you didn’t want us to be mad.” He watched Castiel’s features as the words sank in, watched the automatic resistance and confusion interwoven with surprise and contemplation. “You didn’t come to us for help because you were afraid. Because we’ve helped you before, and what if this was too much? And you're family, but I’m _really_ family, and I was sick, so would we really have time for you? Would we care enough to make time?”

Castiel averted his eyes, and for the first time since the confrontation began, he shifted backwards. “I don’t…” He didn’t take a step, but he leaned, and his arm started to pull away from Sam and Dean rather than push against them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Which meant Sam was hitting the nail on the head. He had to keep going.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Because then you started working with Crowley, and it got even worse. Because what if this was the one thing we couldn’t forgive? What if this was the one thing you took too far? What if we hated you? What if we didn’t want you anymore?” Sam shook his head, an overwhelming ache cutting into his chest as his heart bled for a friend he was afraid he was too late to reach.

No. Castiel was listening. Sam could reach him.

“You knew it was wrong, and you knew lying would only make it worse, but you would rather be guilty than unwanted—” Castiel actually flinched at that, but Sam kept going, “—so you tried to handle it yourself. You tried to do everything, helping us when you could, because useful people are wanted and adored and _loved,_ and that’s what you want. That’s _all_ you want.”

Castiel took a step back, a mixture of horror and hate bathed in fear slowly crawling up from the ground. “No, wait.” He shook his head, caught off-guard and not knowing what to do.

“And I’m sorry, Cas, because we should have helped you figure that stuff out. You gave up your security to help us, and we didn’t teach you how the free will you got in exchange works. We left you to figure it out on your own.” Sam sighed and pushed Castiel’s hand a little lower, rubbing the exposed skin of his wrist. “And now you feel like you can’t stop until you make everything right. Because if you stop now, and you let us help you, you think we won’t forgive you. You think we’re going to spend the entire time wishing you weren’t around.”

Sam altered his voice slightly, making it a little lower and rougher than usual. “‘He’s an angel, why can’t he clean up his own messes?’ ‘Doesn’t he have anyone else he can bother?’ ‘Do you think if we do this for him, he’ll finally leave us alone?’”

Castiel shook his head vehemently, and it broke Sam’s heart to see just how hard Castiel was trying to deny the truth in Sam’s words. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t—I wasn’t—” He flexed his hand, searching for words, disoriented. He was so lost.

Sam squeezed Castiel’s wrist. “It never stops, does it? It just builds and shifts to fit new situations. Every slight, every sarcastic comment, every inside joke or slang word you don’t understand makes you wonder if we’re trying to tell you to leave. But you can’t leave, because you rebelled for us and you have nowhere else to go. But what if that’s not enough for us? What if we don’t care? What if we don’t think you’re worth the trouble you cause?”

Sam reached out with one hand and held Castiel’s wrist with the other. Castiel leaned back to get away and pulled on his other arm, trying to get it away from Dean, and while he could pick Dean up and move him with ease, he couldn’t get Dean to actually let go.

“Not happening, Cas,” Dean grunted, gripping onto Castiel’s jacket sleeve.

Bobby kept quiet, but he had a good hold on Castiel’s jacket, and the jacket could do very little to throw him off; Castiel certainly couldn’t do anything to him when Sam was captivating his attention.

“Get—get off me! Now!”

Sam jumped forward and managed to get his hand around the back of Castiel’s skull, immediately pulling Castiel in. Castiel resisted, but he used a human level of strength, so Sam pulled harder. If Castiel really wanted to get away, he could fly.

“Stop it!”

“Oh, Cas…” Sam got Castiel’s head against his chest and held it there, wrapping his other arm around Castiel’s shoulder to rub his back. “We love you so much.”

Castiel jerked back, tearing away from Sam and throwing Dean into the nearest wall. “Enough!” He did a half-turn and shoved Bobby away, sending the older man sprawling backward onto the asphalt.

“Cas—” Sam tried, and he heard Dean’s voice overlapping his own.

Castiel was gone before either of them could say anything.

Sam let out a huge sigh and looked at Dean, shaking his head. “We were so close. We can do this, Dean. He’s still in there. He’s still Cas.”

Dean got to his feet with a pained grunt, rubbing the back of his head while Sam went to give Bobby a hand. “If we can get him in the panic room… lock him in… he won’t be able to fly away. Maybe you can pick up where you left off… make him hear you.”

Bobby dusted himself off. “If we can’t get him in that room, it ain’t happening. Dean and I were pulling as hard we could, but if you hadn’t talked him into stopping, he would’ve… done whatever it was he planned to do.” Bobby planted his fists on his hips and shook his head. “He’s too strong.”

“Then let’s do it,” Dean muttered, looking torn between anger and defeat. “It’s Cas. We have to at least try.”

Sam nodded. If he could talk to Castiel again, he could get through. He was certain of it. 

* * *

Sam flew down the steps two at a time, Dean all but pushing him off the flight trying to go just as fast. Sam took in the scene as he got to the bottom, looking from Raphael and Crowley to Castiel, who was standing across from them with a jar of blood in his hands.

“Cas!” Dean passed where Sam had stopped to approach Castiel with a hand outstretched. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t. Okay?”

“Eloquent,” Crowley commented dryly, lifting his hand in a little wave a second later. “Hello, Bobby. Long time, no see. I’ve missed you terribly.”

Sam pointed at Crowley and snapped, “You shut up. We just want Castiel.”

Behind him, Bobby tossed two middle fingers to the King of Hell.

Crowley gave them both an unimpressed look and gestured with a sweep of his arm. “By all means, take him. Just make sure he leaves the strawberry jam. We’re having toast.”

Castiel glared at the group as a whole and then zeroed in on Dean. “I am not going anywhere,” he snarled, fingers gripping the jar of blood they could only assume was Elanor’s.

They all heard the flutter of wings, and then Balthazar was standing behind Castiel, chewing on his lip and giving his friend a half-sheepish, half-told-you-so look. “Sorry, mate, but you’re off the trolley-track. Toss the blood to somebody else, alright?”

Raphael smirked, lighting a fire in Sam’s veins, and folded his—her?—arms over his chest. “If you can’t even get your followers to respect your authority, how did you ever intend to beat me in battle?”

“Hey!” Dean whirled on the spot and pointed an accusatory finger at Raphael. “We would do more for Cas than any of your goons would for you, _including_ getting between him and the King of Hell _and_ an archangel, so shut your pie hole.”

“Come on, Cas,” Sam urged, moving a little closer to where Dean was. “Hand the blood over, and let’s leave before someone gets hurt.”

“It’s too late for that,” Castiel growled, looking away from Sam to stare at Raphael.

Raphael lifted his hand, fingers poised to snap. “I completely agree.”

Sam cursed, Dean was reaching out to shield Sam, Crowley was in the process of opening his mouth, and Castiel was halfway through shouting Raphael’s name when a blade burst from the archangel’s chest, light exploding in every direction.

Sam shielded his eyes and crouched somewhat, Dean’s hand still on his arm, and when the light faded, Sam blinked away the floaters and found himself staring at an old, familiar, mixed-feelings-inducing face.

Gabriel looked at them with a knowing smile and greeted, “Hiya, Castiel.”

Sam blinked in surprise and immediately looked to Castiel to see what impact Gabriel’s presence would have.

Castiel seemed just as shocked as everyone else, but he had gone from holding the jar of blood with one hand to holding it with two. He wasn’t giving up yet.

Sam almost cursed again.

Gabriel turned his head slightly and smiled at Crowley. “Hey, Crowley.”

Crowley tilted his head back slightly, raising an elegant brow. “Uh-huh.” He nodded once. “I can be accused of many things, but not knowing when I’ve been beaten isn’t one of them.” With that, he was gone, and with Raphael dead on the floor, everyone in the room was on the same side.

Or at least, Sam really hoped they were.

“I… thought you were dead.” That was Dean.

Sam’s head snapped over to look at his brother. “What?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

“You never told me he was dead!” Sam shouted.

Dean looked between Sam and Gabriel, holding up his hands. “Well, at first, I was worried it might make you, I don’t know, relapse, but then with the Apocalypse and Cas and everything—”

Gabriel let out a theatrical sigh, twirling a twisted angel blade in his hand. “You forgot about my noble sacrifice so quickly, Dean. I’m wounded.”

Balthazar cleared his throat. “Good to see you, mate, but what are you doing here?”

Gabriel gestured to Castiel with a disapproving purse to his lips. “Maybe you should take that one, little brother.”

Castiel swallowed, looking down at the blood in his hands, and Sam could practically _see_ the idea to fly away light up in Castiel’s eyes.

“Don’t you dare!” Dean yelled, apparently seeing the same thing. “It’s over, Cas. Raphael is dead, nobody’s bringing the Apocalypse back, so just let Purgatory _go._ ”

“If you can,” Gabriel commented, words and eyes accusatory. “Or are you finally going to admit this has been more of a power trip than anything for the last, oh, three weeks or so?”

“It’s not a power trip!” Castiel replied so adamantly and so automatically it couldn’t be anything but a lie; one he was desperate to make everyone, including himself, believe. “It’s… it’s complicated.”

“It’s really not,” Dean countered, taking a step forward with the intent to grab the blood.

Castiel almost took a step back before spying Balthazar and sidestepping instead.

Sam looked at Balthazar and nodded slightly. Balthazar did the same in return.

“Sorry, mate.”

“What?”

Balthazar appeared behind Castiel, wrapped both arms around him, and then disappeared.

Gabriel arched a brow and looked at the brothers. “I hope you have a contingency plan for him.”

“Yeah.” Dean wiped his hands on his jeans and turned away from where Castiel had been. “Balthazar warded the crap out of the panic room.” He let out a sigh. “So… how long have you been following us?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Pretty much since I got killed by Lucifer.” He held up the blade in his hand and waved it around a little. “This is an archangel blade. It’s the only thing that can kill an archangel, and it has to be wielded by another archangel in order to work.”

Dean frowned and pointed to the weapon in question. “You’re saying Lucifer didn’t use one of those?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Nope. He used a regular angel blade.”

Sam frowned, too. “So… he knew you weren’t dead?”

Gabriel shrugged again. “That would be my guess. By playing dead, I promised him I wasn’t going to fight back or continue helping the two of you, and… despite everything, we were… _are…_ brothers.” He looked at the body on the ground. “Raphael or Michael would have killed me without a second thought, but… Lucifer and I were always the emotional ones. It’s what makes him so hateful, but it’s also what gives you a leg up, if you know how to use it against him.”

Nobody said anything for a moment, and while Sam couldn’t speak for the others, he knew he kept his own peace out of respect for the fact that Gabriel had just killed his brother and become the last archangel to be both alive and topside.

Gabriel heaved a sigh and tossed his blade over his shoulder, but it never hit the ground, no doubt disappearing into one of his pocket universes. “Well, it looks like you’ve got Castiel, and Sam’s back on his feet again, so—”

“You’re just gonna leave?” Sam asked incredulously, spreading his hands slightly. “Castiel’s your brother, too, you know.”

Gabriel pressed his lips into a tight smile and nodded. “Yeah, he is. And I failed him, and all the other angels, big time when I bailed.”

“So, you’re bailing again?” Bobby questioned, seeming unimpressed.

Gabriel glanced at Bobby. “I’m putting him up for adoption.” He looked back at Dean. “You’ve been a better brother for him than I have.” He looked at Sam. “You have, too.” Back to Dean. “You haven’t given up on him, and I’ll be honest, with this latest stunt, I thought for sure you would. But you didn’t. He needs you, and you need him.” He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “So, this is me stepping back. I’m washing my hands, running off to find some porn stars, and leaving all the dirty work and its rewards to you.”

Dean snorted, but the lingering smile on his lips said he preferred Gabriel leaving Castiel to them.

Sam wasn’t as convinced. “What about Heaven?”

Gabriel held up a finger. “Ah. Yes.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of glowing, bluish-white light. “That’s a little dose of archangel Grace. It won’t make Castiel an archangel, but it’ll give him back the power he had before he fell along with a little booster.” He looked at the two of them, losing his smirk and usual tone of banter. “When he earns it—when you can trust him again—give him that. And _only_ then. Heaven will learn to survive without a leader until then.” He tilted his head back and heaved a weary sigh. “Maybe it’ll do them some good to be on their own for a while.”

“I doubt it,” Bobby muttered.

No one commented, but Sam offered a small nod to indicate he agreed.

“Well, I guess that means I’m bailing again.” Gabriel was back to flippance and nonchalance. “If you need anything—and I mean _really_ need it _—_ shoot a prayer my way. Other than that, good luck, and good riddance.” Gabriel gave a mock salute, and he was gone before anyone could think of anything to say that might stop him.

Dean swore under his breath. “I mean, I guess that turned out good?”

“Good?” Bobby echoed. “Compared to being bloodstains on the wall, yeah, I’d say so!”

Sam offered a small smile, but it didn’t last. He could feel himself growing tired, and under that, worry was gnawing on the pit of his stomach. “Now we just have to get Cas back with us…”

Dean swore again, rubbing his face, and Bobby sighed loudly.

_Yeah. My thoughts exactly._

* * *

Sam tilted slightly and quickly grabbed his balance, barely managing not to spill the cup of hot tea in his hands. He used one hand to wave over his shoulder, a silent thanks to Balthazar for sending him into the warded room. They couldn’t exactly open the door without risking Castiel flying out, so… Angel Air it was.

It didn’t take Sam long to spot Castiel sitting against the wall, cross-legged on the floor, rolling his jar of blood back and forth between his hands.

“Castiel?” Sam tried softly.

Castiel stopped rolling the jar, but he didn’t look up.

“I, uh, I made you some tea.” Sam slowly approached, crouching down and setting the tea well within Castiel’s reach. “We had to drive pretty far, so… we just got back.”

Castiel kept looking at the floor, saying nothing, hands still dangling off his knees where they had been when he was rolling the jar.

Sam eased himself into a sitting position and crossed his legs, mirroring Castiel and resting his wrists on his knees so his hands dangled. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake, Sam,” Castiel whispered.

Sam closed his mouth, sadness tugging on his shoulders.

Castiel started to shake his head almost absently. “And I can’t fix it.”

“Sure you can,” Sam countered, waving it off.

Castiel lifted his head, and when he met Sam’s eyes, there was a thin sheen of tears in his own. “How?”

Sam picked up the tea and the jar and set them both aside. “Here, I’ll show you.” He got to his feet with a little grunt and waved Castiel up. “Come on.”

Castiel hesitated, started to get up, hesitated again, and then slid onto his feet. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes immediately drawn back to the floor, and he really did seem ashamed of himself.

Sam stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Castiel, pulling him into a warm hug and squeezing him tight. “See?” He reached up and buried a hand in Castiel’s hair, tucking the angel’s head against his shoulder. “I feel better already. Don’t you?”

Castiel was stiff for a moment, and then he melted in Sam’s arms with a silent, shuddering sob. His shoulders trembled as he pressed his face against Sam’s neck, shaking his head slightly. “Sam…” he whispered, “…this is kind, but it won’t fix anything. You know that.”

“This fixes everything, Cas. There are things that aggravated the situation that we have to talk about, but what you did? Lying and Crowley and Purgatory? You just fixed it.”

Castiel shuddered and shook his head a little harder, keeping his body tucked into Sam’s. “Dean will not agree.” He clenched and unclenched his fists, at a loss for what to do with his hands. “I—I don’t know if I’ll ever redeem myself to him. Not completely, not truly.”

Sam let out a little sigh and rubbed Castiel’s back. “Cas… you know we’re crazy about you, right?” He felt Castiel tense in his arms, and he kept up the gentle back-rubbing. “We miss you when you’re gone, and we talk about you. We talk about good times we’ve had together, things we like about you, things we’d like to do with you in the future.”

Castiel’s hands slowly wandered up to the small of Sam’s back and laid flat, not confident enough to go any higher and not comfortable enough to cling.

“We don’t care that you’re awkward and different; we just like it when you’re around. We’d rather have you here than not. We don’t tolerate you because you’re useful, we just like you because you’re you.” Sam thumbed the ridge of Castiel’s spine, holding on tight.

Castiel let out a confused sort of noise that reminded Sam of a frightened animal; some kind of growl that faltered into a whimper at the end, anger tapering into confusion and fear as Castiel realized how much it was going to hurt to hear the truth and finally break under it.

“And I know there’s a little voice in your head telling you I’m lying; telling you I’m only saying this to make you feel better. That you aren’t _really_ forgiven, and that we really _are_ mad, and we just don’t want to deal with explaining why you’re wrong. It tells you there’s no way we could love or want you, for better or worse.” Sam tucked his chin over the top of Castiel’s head, feeling the heat of Castiel’s forehead against his throat. “But we do.”

Castiel’s fingers dug into Sam’s back, his body trembling as he struggled to keep his sobs silent, a few quiet gasps escaping despite his every attempt to keep them in. “But I’ve made so many mistakes.” Castiel took a careful breath, fighting with his voice to keep it steady. “You told me it was wrong countless times, and I ignored you, and I disobeyed, and I—I killed Elanor, and I lied—”

“And you’re sorry. And we love you. And we forgive you.” Sam squeezed him tight. “And we still want you, flaws and broken pieces and mistakes and all.” He let out a little sigh and held Castiel even tighter. “Always, Cas.”

“Sam, you’re not well,” Castiel objected, his voice hitching slightly. “You need to take care of your own health—and Dean and Bobby as well—not waste time worrying about me. You should focus on getting better.”

“I am. I’m just focused on getting you better, too.” Sam laughed softly. “I can focus on more than one thing at a time. And you’re worth it.”

Castiel didn’t say anything for a moment, his hands sliding up until they were in the middle of Sam’s back, fingers curling through the flannel and hanging on for dear life. “Sam,” Castiel whispered, tears thick in his voice. “Would it be alright if I…” He exhaled sharply and sucked down a shuddering breath. “Could I possibly… that is, could you help me…”

“Yeah, Cas.” Sam glanced over his shoulder, but the room was just as sealed as before, and the slat on the door was still closed. “Go ahead, Cas. We’re alone.”

Castiel shook violently, but it took a moment for his cries to gain enough volume for Sam to hear. Castiel held on tight, air hissing between his clenched teeth, forehead rubbing against Sam’s collarbone.

Sam felt hot tears soaking into his shirt, and all he could do was rub Castiel’s back a little more and murmur under his breath. “It’s okay, Cas. It’s okay.”

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” Castiel breathed, sobbing through the last word.

“I know, and it’s okay. I forgive you. Dean forgives you. It’s okay.”

“I love you, Sam. I love Dean, too.” Castiel adjusted his arms, trying to pull Sam in closer, if that was even possible. “I don’t really understand it, but I—I like being a part of your family. I want to stay.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I want to stay, Sam.”

Sam chuckled softly. “Well, good, ‘cause you’re stuck with us.” He hesitated for a brief second, and then he turned his head and tilted it down, pressing a chaste kiss to Castiel’s temple. “It really is okay, Cas. We’ve got you. Okay? We’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Castiel only wept.

* * *

Sam smiled to himself and trailed his fingers through Castiel’s hair again, letting his hand run as far down Castiel’s spine as it could go before reaching up and turning the page of his book. He adjusted his fingers to hold the book exactly how he wanted it, and then he started to play with Castiel’s hair again. It was a bit awkward, trying to read while an angel was laying on—and thoroughly weighing down—his lower half, but he was making it work.

“How is he?”

Sam looked up and saw Dean standing in the doorway.

“Exhausted,” Sam replied with a small smile.

Dean folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. “It looks like you were right about him being scared.”

Sam pressed his lips together and nodded, but he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t really need to. Castiel had made it very clear when he burst into tears hours after his first crying session from a single sentence from Dean.

_“Cas, if the only way to meet you and have you in our lives was for me to go to Hell, then I’m glad I did, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”_

Sam suspected Castiel’s reaction had much to do with the fact that only Castiel and Dean really knew what Dean had gone through in Hell, and it held a special meaning for them. But regardless, it had been an emotionally charged day for everyone, and while Sam could feel himself fading, Castiel had already been sucker punched into unconsciousness by the strain.

“How are you?”

Sam shrugged his shoulders, dog-earing his page and setting the book on the nightstand. “Meh. I can’t complain.”

Dean arched his brow and gave Sam a disapproving look. “No, really.”

Sam huffed out a quiet, defeated laugh and looked down at Castiel, avoiding eye contact by paying careful attention to the paths his hand took across the angel’s scalp. “I… I really am doing okay. I’m just… I feel like I’ve been doing the same level of okay for a while now… and I’m worried this is as good as it’s going to get.”

Castiel inhaled deeply and mumbled a few incoherent phrases before smooshing his face against Sam’s stomach and letting the air back out in a long, contented stream.

Sam smiled slightly and trailed his fingers through Castiel’s hair once again. “I’m afraid you guys are going to forget I’m sick… or worse, _I’m_ going to forget I’m sick… and I’ll push myself right back to where I was before.” He swallowed hard and shook his head. _I can’t do that._ He looked up at Dean then, hoping his next words wouldn’t make Dean upset. “I’m worried if I’m not in a bad place, then… you’re not going to be so open. We’ll go back to ‘no chick-flick moments’ and… and how it used to be, and I don’t want that.”

Dean pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully for a few seconds before pushing off the doorframe, dropping his arms to his sides and shuffling over to the bed. He crawled onto the mattress, taking a moment to tousle Castiel’s hair, and then he laid down on his side facing Sam.

“Listen to me, Sammy.”

Sam looked at Dean and nodded.

“That’s never going to happen. Okay?” Dean shook his head. “Never. We aren’t gonna unlearn the things we’ve learned, and with what we know, we _can’t_ go back.”

Sam wet his lips and blinked. “You promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.” Dean pushed himself up on one arm and leaned in, planting a quick kiss on Sam’s forehead. “We’re gonna keep getting better. Both of us.” He glanced down at Castiel. “Well, all three of us.”

Sam smiled and scooted down as much as Castiel’s weight allowed, settling into the mattress. “We’ll survive,” he said softly. “I mean, we made it this far, right?”

“Exactly.” Dean yawned and fluffed up one of the pillows Sam wasn’t using. “No matter what happens next, we’ve got better tools to work with than we did before. We can handle it.”

Sam yawned, too, covering his mouth before returning to the hair-stroking that had become automatic. “I love you, Dean,” Sam murmured, eyes slowly drifting shut.

Dean gave Sam a sleepy smile and replied, “I love you, too, Sammy.”

Fourteen minutes later, Sam tumbled into unconsciousness. The last thing he was aware of was someone placing a large blanket over the three of them and muttering.

“Idjits.”

* * *

 _“Tell me that I’m still breathing._  
_Tell me that I’m not fading out;_  
 _I’m not fading out._

_Tell me that I’m not crazy._   
_Help me to make sense of it all;_   
_To make sense of it all.”_

_\- Bring to Life, We As Human_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no one was too disappointed by the way the Apocalypse and Civil War were handled. I didn't want them taking center stage (or any of the stage, really, more like backdrop only), so I tried to keep their solutions as simple as possible. I hope I didn't lose too much realism in the process.
> 
> I know it got a little Castiel-centric there, but I hope I managed to keep the focus on Sam overall. I couldn't just _not_ deal with the Civil War, so I tried to bring Sam's anxiety in a little more as well as show how people with depression tend to be very empathetic and attuned to mental health cues from the people around them.
> 
> Some of you might have picked up on it, but it was kept really subtle so... *shrugs* But in the first chapter, when Sam first spoke to Gabriel and then woke up in bed with a glass of water on the nightstand, it was Gabriel who put him there. Then, in this chapter, when Sam woke up and there was hot coffee on the nightstand and someone tucked him in, despite Dean and Castiel being on a hunt and Bobby not having access, that was Gabriel as well.
> 
> So, basically, Gabriel is alive, Sam and Dean have a healthy relationship, Castiel is actually valued for more than his use as a plot device or secret weapon, and because the Leviathan were never unleashed, Bobby isn't going to die in a matter of months! Yay! I will probably write a few more things in this verse (namely, Dean in therapy), but I make no promises at this time. Still, keep an eye out!


End file.
